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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The House Finch

There was a pair of house finches building a small nest outside our window. I’d watch them weave it all together—the female, with her muted brown feathers, working relentlessly on her art. The twigs meticulously placed, one over the next—how they intertwined with one another. The male, with his bright cherry red head and breast, …

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Naming Grief

How do you talk about a sunset, without sounding like every conversation about sunsets? At the market, the checker she says, The sunset is beautiful—I love that I can watch it from this window. I say, Oh yes, the colors are stunning. Those pinks, those yellows. Then, when I get home, my mother-in-law, she says, …

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Patchwork Girl

An aunt of mine makes quilts, for every generation of the family.  When we are young, she shows us ours—the patches for each sibling.  I remember being worried that my brother, newly born, did not have a square.  Worried he had been forgotten in the weaving all together of a family. I watch the grown …

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