By Sarah E. Murphy

I haven’t been to Grand Ave since November.

For me, it’s not just a street, but a place. And 36 was more than a house or even a home; it was the seventh Murphy sibling.

The last time I walked up the brick path was Monday, November 17th, 2025, the day after my family celebrated our mother’s life, sharing stories in the overflowing meeting hall of First Congregational Church on Main Street, just as we had for Dad a decade earlier.

A few days later, on Thursday, November 20th, my husband Chris was diagnosed with esophageal cancer.

Since then, I haven’t been able to catch my breath, let alone grieve.

For the first time in my life – while facing the most daunting challenge of my life – I can’t go home.

Not because it’s gone, but because nothing will ever be the same again. The two people who made it everything it was aren’t there anymore.

It reminds me of a colloquialism about the power of photos and how they can solidify something, not just in memory but reality.

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” as the saying goes.

In my case,  everything in my life, from profound to mundane, has been processed in that L-shaped house by the sea where I didn’t need a seashell to hear the ocean’s echo. I had Falmouth Heights Beach, just beyond my bedroom window.

As I recalled in my reflections at my mother’s celebration of life, Grand Ave was where I always felt safe, accepted, and unconditionally loved.

Where creativity was always encouraged and fostered by both my parents. Where I became a writer by gravitating to poetry because it allowed me to tune out the outside world and tune into my thoughts.

Whatever I was going through, from adolescent anxiety to teen heartbreak to the day I accompanied my dad back to Falmouth Heights in an ambulance from Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, so he could die peacefully in his favorite place, everything felt less daunting whenever I walked up that brick path. And nothing was ever truly experienced until I went home.

My version of the Yellow Brick Road.

Since losing my mother, this is the longest I’ve gone without crossing that threshold, a relatively short amount of time compared to most who fly their childhood coop. The only other time I’ve been away nearly this long was when I traveled cross-country in 1998 with my friend Damian, embarking from West Newton on Valentine’s Day.

Instead of walking up the brick path, I’ve spent the past few months accompanying Chris to Brigham & Women’s,  Dana-Farber Cancer Center at South Shore Hospital in Weymouth, and the Dana-Farber Cancer Center at Patriot Place in Foxborough as he undergoes radiation and now chemoimmunotherapy through June.

It is profoundly bittersweet to listen to Christmas carols while sitting in a waiting room with cancer patients and their loved ones.

Yet, I thought nothing could be more bittersweet than Christmas 2024, when I spent the afternoon waiting for my mom, who was still sleeping soundly at 3 pm, to awaken, wondering if she actually would while worrying she might not.

The polar opposite of running into my parents’ bedroom with my siblings all those early mornings to ask if Santa had come.

This time, our bustling house was dark and silent. No tree, no lights, no carols. The red and green crocheted stockings Nana Murphy made weren’t laid out on the writing room table.

I felt like Cindy Lou Who or the freckled rag doll on the Island of the Misfit Toys.

“I haven’t any dreams left to dream,” she cried, thinking Santa had forgotten to come for her.

When I realized with relief my mother was okay, I went out for a quick walk just before sunset, flooded with memories from Christmas past. The neighborhood was dotted with the warm glow of homes in celebration, and I could even catch the smell of a holiday roast wafting through the salt air. I passed the Walsh house, where I began my first official babysitting job at age 11, caring for a three-month-old on summer evenings when her parents would accompany her widowed grandfather to the Wharf for dinner on the deck. Those memories and the unpretentious charm of the Cape Cod architecture and weathered shingles brought me comfort, for although it was in darkness, it remained largely unchanged, frozen in time. I found myself longing for the company of my family at our crowded table.

When I returned home, my mother was wide awake, filled with excitement and enthusiasm at my presence, and I tried to hide my tears. She was still in her bathrobe, sitting in her favorite chair in her office, reading aloud passages to me from a book I gave to her a few days earlier on her 89th birthday. I knew then it would be her last. She was collecting ideas for her funeral, marking pages she especially liked, knowing better than anyone else.

As Chris and I continue this unplanned journey, the holidays continue to pass us by. Yesterday, on Valentine’s Day, we weren’t concerned about presents. We have everything we need, and we’re grateful for the little things. Although my mother isn’t here to remind me, and I can’t go home to process it all, I know she and my dad are with us every step, and I can hear her voice in my head, invoking Julian of Norwich for assurance.

“All shall be well.”