When picturing the afterlife I see you. In an endless field of dandelions we run.Read More
Stewie died almost a year ago when he was sixteen. Sadly, his life ended in suffering; he had kidney disease and all of our attempts to care for him, to make him comfortable, failed. He was skin and bones, and dragged himself from room to room. It was past time when my husband took him to the vet to be euthanized.Read More
There was once a man I needed to have be dead. I got as far away from him as I could get, and told myself that was far enough. Then time went by, years, and whenever he came into my mind, which was less and less over time, I told myself he was surely dead by now.
But last night as I was falling asleep, a voice said you don’t know. You don’t know for sure he’s not drinking a beer right now. People can live a surprisingly long time.Read More
My Daddy lived with me before he died. I didn’t write during that time. I wish I had known then about how healing it can be but knowing myself as I do now—somewhat petulant and always right, of course—I probably would’ve flung aside the idea that anything could help. Besides, when would I have had time to write? Puh-leeze! I was teaching full-time, I had a teenage daughter, my marriage was falling apart, my siblings were nowhere to be found, and I was fast approaching menopause.Read More
This morning my wife is visiting with her parents-which is fine with me, except that they're both dead. It's been four months since her dad passed away, some months more since her mom died. Now in the midst of combing through old photos and letters, the two of them have returned and could be staying with us the whole weekRead More
I dreamed of you my whole life. Every baby I ever held carried the thought of you. Every girlhood game, every dreamy drive alone. For years I have mapped your father’s face onto mine. You probably had his peaked, cow-licked hairline, and my nostrils visible in profile. Did the fingers you were building bend as far back as his? I will never, ever know.
There’s a picnic table in my sunroom, an old pine table notched together with wooden pegs, and two benches worn from over sixty years of sitting, first in my childhood kitchen, then more recently here, in my own house, all these years later, where I take my breakfast, to sit and munch and gaze at the out of doors, the backyard, and all its animal busyness that comes with early mornings.Read More
I really didn't know what to do about her birthday. Should I mention it and see if the kids remember? Should I make a cake? No clue. So I asked them. Grace said, "why don't we get pizza and then go to the bookstore and each pick out a book for Mommy's birthday?" But then she kind of ruined it by saying "and then when Grammie dies we can get a book and when Poppy dies we can get a book and when Ripley (the dog) dies we can get a book." Calvin thought it was a good idea as long as his could be Power Rangers. So that's what we did.Read More
Eight minutes…eight minutes…eight minutes and he was gone.
He is obviously more present dead than alive.
Solid, stoic, and oppressively kind, he was a young man of few words and gone before the smoke from the gun settled into the grassy lawn.
It was eight minutes from the time he stepped out of his brother’s car (singing, laughing, and joking) to the moment his bloody head hit the floor.
Hey, Girl, hey,
I think about you every day,
Thanks for being part of my summer season,
You helped me grow, learn and find reason,
I mourn the loss of you,
A soul so bright, a friend so true,