It has been six months since my grandmother’s passing. Sometimes things like art grow still inside a grieving heart. Perhaps I'm ready to write again. Time will tell. She was singing a year ago, Thanksgiving in our kitchen, Which is why I remember it. Now I watch, through the narrow slit of a newly painted …
Continue reading Lace and Yellow Roses
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 …
Today when Adam left for work, we spent a long time in the doorway wrapped up in each other’s arms. A long time. An I-don’t-want-to-let-you-go amount of time. How fucking lucky am I that I still have him to hold onto, because some of my neighbors woke up without that gift. Some fathers today woke …
Continue reading When it Hits Home: A Shooting Next Door
I intended to do far more writing while abroad. Until I got sick. Ibiza offers far too little sleep, and far too many other things. And after I got sick, I got sick with something else. Then sick with something else, and it seemed the illnesses came in waves. I’m a fragile little bird. However, pharmacies …
Continue reading With Candles Lit by Tears
The Wild Heart of Life 