Robin reached out in response to my call for conversations.

She couldn’t travel to the Berkshires when her sister scattered their mother’s ashes alongside their father’s, decades after his death. Instead, her sister saved some ashes for her. Robin keeps them in her mother’s old jewelry pouch and carries them with her to political marches.

We met at her light-filled home at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, surrounded by color and art. As we sat together, she spoke about her mother, their loving yet strong relationship, and how her mother’s ashes continue to be an active presence in her life.

This is Robin’s story.

NOTE: Her father made the sculpture in the photo that sits next to her mother's ashes. She speaks about it in the interview.

When Robin reached out, she was responding to my call for conversations.

She told me she couldn’t travel to the Berkshires when her sister and family scattered their mother’s ashes in the same place where their father’s had been scattered decades earlier. Her sister saved some ashes for her. Robyn keeps them in her mother’s old peach colored jewelry pouch and carries them with her to political marches.

We met in Robin’s home, tucked at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, filled with light, open space, and vibrant art. Sitting together, she spoke about her mother, their loving and strong-willed relationship, and the ways she continues to be in relationship with her mother’s ashes not as something fixed or finished, but as a presence that still moves through her life.

This is Robin’s story.

The sculpture pictured was created by her father and is part of the story she shares in the interview.

Laurie responded to a call for stories while I was visiting another city. She keeps the ashes of both her mother and stepfather in her home. When I arrived, her house was filled with the warmth of Christmas and Hanukkah — stockings, lights, and a quiet sense of family.

We talked at her kitchen table, where she shared memories of a deeply loving mother and a stepfather who became a steady, devoted father figure. Death was never discussed in her childhood home, so her mother’s wish to be cremated came as a surprise, and the silence around loss left her carrying an unspoken fear.

As she showed me the containers holding her mother’s and stepfather’s ashes, she pulled out a photograph of her mother as a Girl Scout and another of herself at the same age. The resemblance was extraordinary.

This is Laurie's story.

Claudette was the first person I spoke with outside a home. She lived six hours away and happened to be visiting when we met.

She spoke about her parents, her deep love for her father, and a mother who never once said “I love you.”

As with so many of these conversations, it’s the quiet, human details that stay with me. Claudette carried her father’s ashes through his childhood home, a place now crumbling and unlivable, yet still holding the story of where he began.

For much of her life, her mother kept her from her father, disapproving of his background and family. What remained was a relationship shaped by love, distance, and restraint.

This is Claudette’s story.

(there is no image to go with these stories)

Nicole became emotional almost as soon as she began talking about her father. There was deep admiration in her voice, and so many tears.

Her father’s ashes are divided into three containers in her home, each representing a different relationship to him. One of those containers took years to recover. Nicole eventually drove hours to retrieve it just before an estate liquidation, finding it wrapped in brown paper and tucked away at the back of a closet. Even after bringing it home, something still felt unresolved.

Nicole’s mother sat quietly in the corner of the room the entire time, listening as Nicole spoke with me. In that space, it felt as though Nicole wasn’t only remembering her father — she was still in conversation with him, honoring a man she deeply admired.

This is Nicole’s story.

I met Callie in her vibrant, textured home, where color lived on every wall, and a cat and dog welcomed me at the door. We spoke about her mother and her husband, two very different lives, two very different deaths. Her husband chose the Neptune Society; her mother, raised Greek Orthodox, broke with tradition and asked to be cremated.

As Callie shared their stories, she pointed out two objects in the room that, for her, hold far more meaning than their ashes ever could. They are the pieces of them she chooses to keep close.

In this episode, we sit at Liz’s sunny dining table, where an unexpected and beautiful conversation unfolds. She tells us about her mother, Mary Ann Shaffer, the librarian who, in her final years, co-wrote The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and passed away before witnessing its success.

Liz also shares the story of her husband, a Vietnam veteran who died from Agent Orange-related cancer.

What emerges is a portrait of love, loss, and the quiet legacies we carry.

This is the story of Gua Gua, Melanie’s mother.
In our conversation, I met a woman who lived boldly, left when life got hard, and came back just when Melanie was older. She loved tequila and made everyone around her laugh all the time.

For Melanie, the relationship is complicated but filled with real affection, a mix of ache, joy, and a love that keeps returning, just like Gua Gua herself.

Melanie shares the depth of her connection to her mother's ashes and why she doesn't think she will ever be able to let her ashes go.

This is Audio Ashes, where the stories we tell breathe life into those we’ve lost and the ashes we keep become windows into love, memory, and everything we still carry.

In Wendy’s home rest the ashes of three women who shaped her world: her grandmother, her mother, and her best friend. Two embody the ease of unconditional love; the third, her mother, carries a history braided with both tenderness and hurt. As we sat together, stories surfaced gently: moments of joy, moments that stung, surprising turns in a life still being understood. And when Wendy went to gather the small vessels that hold these ashes, she realized she couldn’t find her mother’s. The absence hung softly between us, reflecting the complicated bond she continues to navigate, a relationship still present, even in its gaps.

This is Wendy's story.

Editing by Andy Nedelkovski & Original Music by Hamish Stevenson