One of three left in the black of night, As the white coats tried to play God.
Longing, loss, feeling lost and drowning in grief are some of the hardest feelings to work with. The following powerful quote by John Green, from his novel, “The Fault of Our Stars”, is a throat-strangling statement of absolute truth. “The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer, which meant losing the memory itself, as if the things… Read More
She spent her life dancing to her favorite songs, She was a little girl who was all alone. Eyes wide open, always hoping for the sun, She was a little girl who was all alone. Fragile as leaf in autumn just falling to the ground, Without a sound. She had a crooked little smile on her blue-eyed face, as she tells her silent tale of grace. She was a little girl who… Read More
Longing, loss, lost and grief. Some of the hardest things to work with and I’m not talking about just the death of “a person” – it can be the death of a routine, a recipe you lost from your great-great-grandmother, a job opportunity you thought you had in the bag, or you just found out they discontinued your favorite brand of toilet paper. Grief is not something to be “cured” or “get… Read More
One of three left in the black of night, As the white coats tried to play God. Stripping her heart of its peaceful rest, Claiming lawful words didn’t matter. Third sister stood alone in the fight, In the blackness of that night. Second of three lay in a cloud of haze, Family tightly wound around her. Tears told stories of memories past, As time fled by in dwindling light. Third sister stood… Read More
July 27, 2005 – Journal Entry So here I am San, sitting in the grass by your memorial. This is the day you were admitted to hospice a year ago – the day before you died. Today, I have brought you a white rose with a note for you to read from wherever you are. I hope you know I’m here – I sense you all around me either way. The mallards are… Read More
Rebus* You work with what you are given, the red clay of grief, the black clay of stubbornness going on after. Clay that tastes of care or carelessness, clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust. Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live, each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table. There are honeys so bitter no one would willingly… Read More