EMILY PRATT SLATIN

About

Press Kit

She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Former Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer.

Someone Left The Gate Open

November 2, 2025—Stamford, New York (Childhood Home)
Mom passed away, and the world went still in that specific kind of way it only does when something permanent shifts. She was my best friend, my anchor, the one person who always understood the language beneath what I said. And now she's gone, and everything—her handwriting on old notes, her half-used chapstick, the sound of her voice in old voicemails—has become evidence of her, rather than extension.

I was her only child, so everything came to me. Not just the house and the bank accounts, but the quiet gravity of it all. The kind of weight you can't hold in your hands but feel pressing down anyway. Her will was simple, like she always was—no confusion, no fine print, just her way of taking care of me one last time.

And yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an ending. It feels like someone intentionally left the gate open. Like she knew I'd stand here too long if she didn't make it obvious there was more life waiting past the fence. There's grief, yes—but also that strange flicker of beginning that shows up right when you least want it to.

I too am going through changes. The kind that sneak up quietly, reshaping things before you notice. It feels like an invitation. Quiet, steady, inevitable—maybe the kind love leaves behind.

(unfinished)