A heavy stew of grief.
My mother died 29 days ago.
Survived by my father. Survived by his brutish narcissism, his meanness. Survived by his demons, by his lifetime of bad behavior. Survived by the dementia, strangely pedantic, that entangled all of us in unrelenting craziness in the last three years of my mother’s life.
All the old traumas inflicted anew.
Survived by me. Grieving. Angry. Unmoored.
You are a writer who writes–with grace and elegance and uncommon depth, in a voice that is utterly original and fine. Thank you for putting your lovely fingers to the keyboard, your nimble mind to glorious work, and your blooming heart on display.