Hourglass.

There’s not much literary inspiration in caring for my grandmother.  There is a lot of sadness—a lot of bittersweet hanging like cobwebs from the ceiling.  A lot of soaking up a final moment, and yet still thinking you’ll have many more to come.  But after a few months, we are now down to our last …

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Glass

After they die, I crack a cold, cheap beer and comb through my belongings.  I look for letters, texts, facebook comments and photographs.  Listen to messages to see if maybe, somewhere along line, they’ve left me the gift of their voice. After they die, I scramble desperately for something left of them.  Something tangible.  Something …

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