When a Wolfe Calls

I woke up this morning to the sound of my grandchildren whispering, their bare feet padding across wood floors, stopping just short of the bedroom I was in. I’ve landed at Ashley and Micah’s house, my oldest daughter and son-in-law. Phone calls and family discussions communicating my arrival have taken place, but the kids are like kittens, curious and playful and investigative. Despite the whispering, I can tell which grandchild is talking. 

“Don’t wake Noni up,” Jay whispers to Ella. 

“Is she still sleeping?” Brinley whispers. 

“Be quiet, you guys!” Elijah establishes order with the loudest whisper. 

The door is cracked. I pop one eye open and giggle.

Ashley’s voice whispers from the living room – “Let Noni sleep.” 

My grandma name is Nona, but the kids mispronounced it long ago, so I am called Noni. 

I smile and close my eyes again. When I open them a second later, all four grandkids are three inches from my face, eager with hugs and questions. 

Do you live here now? 

Did you bring your kitty cats? 

Wanna see my Minecraft house? 

I can go potty on the big potty! 

JD’s urn is on the floor beside the bed. I am wearing our wedding rings on my right hand, a source of comfort when life gets bumpy. His dog tags are wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet, and I’ve slept with a framed picture in the grip of my right hand. In the picture, Jay and I are holding hands. It’s 2007. We’re walking on Agate Beach at Sue-meg State Park in California. My mother had taken the picture without us knowing. We’re on a camping trip. I remember us there, walking barefoot in matching hoodies, an amphitheater of wind and waves, seagulls gliding overhead, the sand crunching beneath our feet. We were talking, sorting out life that day, discussing plans for our future, career moves, our family goals, the kids. You can’t see the kids in the picture, but we can. They’re playing in the surf just ahead of us. It’s the safest, most peaceful place I can remember – that picture. 

I sit up and roar, my hands high like a monster, and the grandkids scream and scatter. In the span of three weeks, I’ve lost my home and half my belongings to toxic mold – my ten-year-old Australian Shepherd who never leaves my side has died from late-stage cancer – I’ve abruptly moved from Maryland to Alabama after a very quick home sale – and I’ve had to give notice at the University of Maryland because I am now ten hours away from campus, which means I’ve also lost my health insurance. I’m a little congested from breathing mold, I miss my dog, and I’ve just been forced to liquidate a major asset. 

I stumble into the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee, join my daughter on the couch. We breathe, smile, look at each other with thankful eyes. My son-in-law grabs a cup and joins. The kids do somersaults around us and play “the floor is lava” on the living room rug, jumping from the couch to piles of pillows on the floor. 

“Breakfast?” My daughter suggests, and we make sausage and eggs and sit down at the table, join hands. Ella, my youngest grandchild at two years old, asks to lead the prayer. She tells God that she’s glad Noni is here, and she hopes they can play on the blow-up today, which is a giant inflatable water slide in their backyard. 

“So, do you?” Brinley asks, taking a bite of eggs. “Live here now?”  

Micah, Ashley, and I all look at each other. It’s the same look we shared a week after JD passed, and we were all sitting on the couch on Christmas morning without him. 

It’s the same look we shared after I sold the Oregon house only three months after JD passed, narrowly missing a wildfire that tore through the town and burned the house to the ground, its new owners barely escaping. 

It’s the same look we shared when Ashely and Micah announced their pregnancy with Jay, and then Ella. 

It’s the unspoken bond of family, forged through life’s events and how we choose to show up for one another. It’s the decision to come running whenever a family member calls. JD’s family has a motto – based on their last name. They always say, “When a Wolfe calls, we all come running.” That’s the look, the look Micah and Ashley and I shared. 

“Yup,” Micah says. “Noni lives here now,” and he passes the syrup to Ashley. 

About Sonney Wolfe

Sonney Wolfe is a writer, educator, mother, nona (grandma), and widow. She holds a Master of Arts in English, teaches academic and professional writing for the University of Maryland, and writes features, press releases, blog posts, and personal essays for various news and social media.

Widowed in December of 2019, she soon joined the masses in COVID lockdowns, which deepened her understanding of grief as she witnessed widespread loss, especially among students. Now, she integrates grief support in her college classrooms by addressing pandemic disruptions, community loss, and mental health challenges. Her autobiographical teaching philosophy, born from her own grief journey, provides a platform to share her experiences and support students who have also lost loved ones.

In her professional writing, she sheds light on the human experience of loss and grief, particularly for widows. She explores the complex societal shift they face, transitioning from wives to widows and often single parents. This sudden change forces widows to navigate not only grief, but also a landslide of challenges: income loss, economic strain, relocation, career shifts, altered healthcare needs, and declining mental health.

Her Blog WIM Dispatches (Woman in Motion), https://sonneywolfe.com, chronicles her personal grief journey and advocates for the needs of widows, along with her IG: @WIM_Dispatches – and Facebook page: WIM Dispatches Life After Jay.