Why . . .

This bed in which I sleep

stand beside

lamp upon

Ours now mine.

And to my Own Self

For those of us who grieve you, what is left in our hands might be surprising or uncomfortable. New. But these stories belong to us, and are not left by you.

Round and Round

I understood the disdain for ingesting ideas when there was so much inside of you that needed to find its way out. I had been writing in lurches and starts over the past decade for this exact reason. Release.

Trumped

Is it ok that I am talking about your fear? Because I think it needs to be known. Your living and your dying, it is an example.

I gotta sing

We were not a love story. We were a choice. Do you remember? “I am choosing to love you,” I texted.

I grieve; You grieve

I have let go, Beardo. I have let you go. And so now you are back, in this peace. And I am so fucking blessed to be in this moment. How could I possibly judge this good feeling that walks with me . . .

Three Men

On your last birthday – the day before you died – you sang “All by Myself” while we all just looked on, the number 41 glowing in front of you. You didn’t wait for us; you grabbed the joy yourself.

Mala, lay down

I am reading about Medusa and the healing crystal that formed from her death. I am reading about transformation and immeasurable joy . . .

Comfort

They are coming by tomorrow, the nurse who was your constant and the nurse who marked your progressed as you passed. I’m not supposed to be helping them, but I want to show them this peace.

Judge not lest ye . . . Be.

Your family once asked me – early on in my caring for you – where my sacred space was. I told them it was sitting still, on the stairs. Because it was.