Between Grief and Graceland: Part One
My parents and I in front of Graceland, March 26th, 2024
I had a terrible time in Memphis.
Not because I didn’t enjoy the mouthwatering barbecue, rich southern culture, deep musical history, or the countless sights and activities. Memphis is a city worth visiting—by all means, go.
I had been looking forward to this trip for months. After a year of navigating life post-breakup and struggling through the early stages of launching my own business, this felt like the adventure I needed—a fresh start to welcome a new decade of life. My 30s.
During the summer of 2023, as I contemplated how to celebrate my upcoming March birthday, it dawned on me—I should visit Graceland, the iconic home of Elvis Presley. I was in my peak Elvis obsession phase, and Memphis seemed perfect—steeped in music history, home to Sun Studio and the legends who recorded there. The warm spring weather would be an added bonus, especially compared to North Dakota’s lingering winter.
But who would go with me?
I didn’t know anyone else who shared my level of enthusiasm for Elvis, but then I remembered—my dad did. So I invited both of my parents. They were excited. We had something to look forward to.
“You don’t forget those phone calls. They have a way of etching themselves deep into your memory, drawing the line between before and after.”
On the morning of March 7th, 2024—three weeks before our trip—I received a phone call from my mother at 8 a.m. Before I even answered, I knew. My body washed over with a feeling all-too familiar. A knot of dread and anxiety twisted in my gut as I prepared for whatever bad news was on the other end of the line.
“It’s Anfernee…” My mother managed to get out. “Your brother was in a bad fight and he lost his life last night.” He was only 24 years old.
You don’t forget those phone calls. They have a way of etching themselves deep into your memory, drawing the line between before and after. The words hit like a stone dropped into still water, sending out shockwaves that expanded into slow circles of pain.
My family took in Anfernee as a foster child when he was 5 years old and later adopted him and his brother. I still remember his first night in our home—how my mother gave him a warm bath and dressed him in cozy red Spider-Man pajamas, which he was very excited about. I watched as they sat together on the couch in the lamp-lit living room, her voice soft as she read him books before bedtime. I wondered if he’d experienced that before.
In those first few months after Anfernee came to live with us, I would walk with him and my other brothers to the library, just a few blocks from home. I’d take his small hand in mine and gently—but firmly—remind him not to curse when he loudly commented on the houses we passed. We were not allowed to swear in our family, and as a 10 year old at the time, I was shocked (and amused) at some of the words that came out of this little boy’s mouth. He brought a wild, untamed energy into our home—an adjustment for all of us. But I can’t begin to imagine the adjustment for him, being uprooted from everything familiar, separated from his biological siblings, and placed in an entirely new town with a family of strangers.
The days and weeks that followed that 8 a.m. phone call were a blur of tears and funeral arrangements. I spent most of that time at home with my family, encased in sadness and anxiety. After the funeral, my parents and I hesitantly brought up the trip. Did we still want to go? Would it feel wrong to leave?
In the end, we agreed—it might be good to get away, even just for a little while. A change of scenery wouldn’t erase the grief, but maybe it would give us space to breathe. We knew it wouldn’t be much of a celebration, not with the fresh wave of loss still settling over us. But we would be together. And that, at least, would matter.
“All the heat had been snatched from my body, like a candle snuffed out too soon.”
The night before our early morning flight, Fargo was under severe blizzard warnings. I hadn’t slept—not that night, not the one before. Only three weeks had passed since Anfernee’s death, and the thought of stepping outside, of leaving the comfort of my bed was debilitating. My body didn’t want to go. I wondered if we’d made the right choice. It just all felt like too much too soon.
Secretly, I hoped our flight would be canceled. I searched for any reason to stay put. I Googled, “Are chills a symptom of grief?” The internet listed many symptoms, but chills weren’t one of them. And yet, my bones weighed heavy with a cold dampness that soaked right to the core.
At 4:30 a.m., my alarm went off. I checked the airline app. No cancellations. No excuses. My parents were already up, getting ready.
By the time we raced across the airport parking lot in the early-morning darkness, the unforgiving midwest wind had cut straight through me. All the heat had been snatched from my body, like a candle snuffed out too soon. And I knew it would take more than a warm destination to bring it back.
The Hernando de Soto Bridge, also known as the “M Bridge” for its distinctive shape.
When we landed in Memphis, I was shocked by how cold 60 degrees felt. In North Dakota, anything above 50 is practically shorts weather, but warmth still evaded me. We arrived at The Guest House at Graceland—a glamorous hotel with live music, multiple bars, and the kind of charm that makes you forget you’re technically not on Elvis’ actual property. In the hallways, brass wall sconces shaped into the initials “EP” lined the walls.
Before check-in, we had lunch at EP’s Bar & Grill, then wandered the hotel. Eventually, we found a quiet seating area, and my dad dozed off in his chair. I snapped a picture, captioning it “Sleeping in Memphis”, feeling only mildly clever. Finally, we got to our room. All I wanted was to crawl into bed, wrap myself in blankets, and sleep. But it was mid-afternoon, and my mother, ever the meticulous planner, had an itinerary ready. She rattled off options, determined to make my birthday trip feel as special as possible.
We decided on a wine bar, followed by a visit to the Bass Pro Shop, housed inside a massive glass pyramid—because, as I had learned, Memphis leans into its namesake, the ancient Egyptian capital on the Nile.
It was drizzling when we stepped outside.
Our Uber driver warned us about Memphis’ high crime rates. We listened, but our minds were elsewhere.
At the top of the Bass Pro Shop, we sat in the restaurant, surrounded by glass windows overlooking the city. Below us, the “M Bridge” stretched across the Mississippi River, connecting Tennessee to Arkansas. Rain trickled down the windows, distorting the bright lights of the bridge. The observation deck was closed due to weather, so we watched quietly from inside, separated by glass, suspended between here and there.
I thought about Chuck Berry’s song, later covered by Elvis:
“Her home is on the south side, high upon a ridge, just a half a mile from the Mississippi bridge.”
He wasn’t singing about this bridge, but somehow, it felt the same.