Seasons of grief: Autumn
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it’s just this time of year
when everything seems to be taunting me
or warning me
or consoling me
( ( ( ((Ren)) ) ) )
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Child(ren). Child(ren)? No, no (ren). No Ren. Just the one child and no (ren). Just my son M and no Ren. I can’t figure out what I’m checking a box for. I authorize payment for my child but not for my Ren. He’s not here. He died. That means his body does not work anymore. I still can’t make sense of it. What a strange combination of symbols and letters. My Ren, my sweet boy, just an echo between parentheses.
Charles Wallace: A Love Story
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A lifetime of love — more more more — not of a living body, but of one beyond the physical — love felt in the network of cells that remember and ache — rocks gathered on the shore — reciting these poems — simply saying the name, Charles Wallace, and I love you — it's catching that baby up too.
Read MoreTelogen Effluvium
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You’re remembering, you’re feeling, you’re disappearing, you’re thinking, you’re learning, you’re listening, you’re trying, you’re struggling, you’re growing, you’re loving, you’re crying, you're holding, you're living.
Read Moreholding on
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it’s so much easier to be broken
than to sit around waiting and waiting and waiting
to break
Read MoreHemispheres
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On one side of my heart, a deep well of love, admiration, awe, and gratitude for every being that gets to exist. How is it that anyone gets to make it out into the world alive? What an absolute miracle each life is. And then there is the other side of my heart - an ever-tunneling density of love packed into a black hole that will never be fully received.
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