The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother Daughter Love At the End of Life is a touching, honest, raw, and moving memoir by Dr. Virginia A. Simpson. In it she shares not only the time in which she cared for her mother as she passed from life to death, but also how the past was brought to the present during this process. Fellow bereavement colleague and friend, Barbara Rubel, introduced Virginia to me via email. We discovered that we live less than 15 miles away from one another. Since that time, Virginia and I have had an opportunity to visit, share, and support one another’s recent books. The following is a snippet of one of our times together. Virginia, did you always dream of writing?

This December, I have done something different. I have said, “No, thank you.” “Sounds lovely, let me see how I feel.” “I think I’ll pass.” I have delighted in solitude, quiet, time alone. Reflection has been my companion. The perfect day involves writing, a walk in the crisp air with the bird’s song replacing my iPhone, a bit of conversation with a family member or friend. My camera has been my sidekick…my memory-keeper to such moments. It has been a delicious December.

The life of a writer is often at odds with the amount of self-promotion, marketing, and “look what I wrote!” that accompanies the job. Let’s face it: we writers can write lovely words that are filled with humility, but unless we spread the word, no one will read it, and the sound of crickets in the night will be our feedback. This complicated balance of writing something of weight and meaning, and “getting the word out” haunts me again as my second book, GriefINK, will be published in the next few weeks by RSBooks (Rod Serling Books). Perhaps more now than ever, I am struck with a sense of not wanting to promote myself, the writer, as much as I want to reach the bereaved with comforting words, break the stigma of tattoo, and offer GriefINK as a companioning tool in grief.

Imagine a jazz club in central Los Angeles the ‘40s: glasses clink, smoke fills the air, the band plays tunes as cool as the winter air. An unconventional woman sits at a table, a cigarette dangles from her slender fingers. Her long legs cross, and her foot taps to the beat; an Arthur Murray trained dancer, music and rhythm are her constant companions. Her pale skin shimmers in the soft light, and her gaze settles on the one who plays the tune of her heart: Howard McGhee, an African-American trumpet player. He plays amidst a group of musicians, but Dorothy Schnell sees only Howard… When Boots McGhee sat across from me in his home in Aptos, California, and detailed the stories of his parents, Dorothy Schnell, a Caucasian dancer, and Howard McGhee, an African American musician, I was transported in time. A child of older parents, I could imagine my father in that same club. How I wish that he was still alive, and I could thank him for introducing me to George Shearing, Louis Armstrong, and other jazz legends. I imagine that Howard McGhee was amidst his record collection, his smooth sounds filling our living room from my father’s turntable.