When I think about writing about my mom I am afraid I will leave the best stuff out. I loved her, hated her, loved her and now mourn her and even channel her. Sometimes she does come out of my mouth.Read More
His birth was unsettling in a primal way.
The archetypes came unmoored,
tectonic plate shifts.
I was floating, untethered.
At once a maiden
I have breast cancer that has metastasized in my lungs. At her recent visit, my hospice nurse said that my lungs sounded like two dry sponges rubbing together. I am on oxygen all day every day. With the effort it takes me to walk a few feet, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. I’m tired. Some days I just sleep.Read More
...am I to be locked in this
-Robert Creeley, excerpt from The Rain
In all of my adult life, I’ve never been frightened by the thought of ghosts; in fact, I’ve longed to be visited by those I’ve lost. Memory is what I fear and am haunted by.
It seems like my dad is always trying to tell me something. He died 3 years ago from cirrhosis of the liver. Liver failure. Something in my spirit always knew he wasn't going to live a long life, but it still came as a shock.Read More
Dear little Brenda in the red plaid dress, little white socks and shoes, on the lawn. Bob gives a toy to you, toys with you, plays. Bobby, you will one day call Bob. Bobby will be your friend, you will hold him in your heart.
Little Brenda in the red plaid dress.
The night we put Jack down, despite being exhausted in every possible way, I didn't want to go to bed. And when I finally did, I laid awake for a long time, just staring around the dark bedroom, eyes wide open.Read More
Today seems to be too pretty to be the day she dies, too sparkly, too vibrant with azaleas and sunshine, unsuitable for death and dying.Read More
The call came while I was eating lunch.
"We are sorry but your father is gone.", said the women on the other end of the line. "What do you mean gone?" , I asked. " "I hate these calls.", she said. "Your father has just died. You may want to come see him to say goodbye."
When picturing the afterlife I see you. In an endless field of dandelions we run.Read More