Eric Loomis lives in Yarmouth.

At 4:58 on a recent morning, I received a text. It’s the kind of message everyone fears — few expect it, and none are ever truly ready for it. It was at 4:58 that I learned my Nana had passed.

Later that same morning, I was driving while listening to the final hour of an audiobook trilogy I had been deeply invested in. As the story neared its end, my thoughts shifted from excitement to expectation. What kind of ending would it have? What final battle, what resolution, what future would be left behind?

With 30 minutes left, those thoughts became more personal — who would survive, who would find peace, who would be left behind?

When the epilogue ended, I sat there, driving, thinking about it. I didn’t like the ending. It wasn’t what I had imagined or hoped for.

After sitting with that feeling, I caught myself: who am I to decide the author chose the wrong ending? The story could have ended a hundred, even a thousand different ways, but it didn’t. It ended the way the author wanted. I don’t have to like it, but I do have to accept it.

I had to ask myself: does an ending I didn’t love erase the hours I did?

After spending over 60 hours in that trilogy world, following those characters, investing in their journey, praying they succeed … was I really going to dismiss all of that because of one final chapter?

When we begin a book, we don’t dwell on the fact that it will end. We step into it willingly, knowing it won’t last forever. We choose to enjoy the beginning, the middle and, eventually, the end. Yet somehow, once it’s over, the ending becomes all we focus on. It reshapes how we talk and think about the entire experience.

But what if we didn’t do that?

What if, instead of saying a story wasn’t good because of how it ended, we said that 99% of it was meaningful, engaging and worth our time? What if we measured a story not just by how it concluded, but by everything it gave us? This question applies to far more than books.

When someone we love passes, we are faced with an ending we did not choose, one we cannot rewrite. Like a story, their life had a beginning, a middle and an end. We may not like that it ended or even how it ended, and we don’t have to. But we cannot let that final chapter overshadow everything that came before it.

Grief is natural, loss is real. But so is everything else, the memories, the laughter, the years, their presence.

So how do we choose to remember the story? Do we focus on the final chapter, or do we hold onto the entire book?

I think stories have been preparing us for this ending all along. Every time we finish a book, we practice accepting an ending we didn’t control, that we can’t control. We learn, even if we don’t realize it, that the ending doesn’t define the worth of the story — the experience does.

We don’t finish a great book and say, “I’m upset it’s over.” We say, “I’m grateful I got to
experience it.” We should do the same for our loved ones.

Thank you, Nana, for the story you wrote. Ninety-one chapters of a life that touched so many others. Thank you for including us in your moments, your lessons and your love. You were a wonderful author.