a private grief

This past week – in my dis-ease – I looked out the same window that Chris spent many a day gazing through, as his body broke down. I remembered his silence, his privacy. I converged with it a little further, as I too feared from within my body. And I too said nothing.

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pandemic routine

Twitter has this beautiful imperfection and permanence to it; you cannot edit a tweet. So writing a story on Twitter – especially the way I write, compelled – is a particular kind of challenge in terms of awareness and seizing the flow.

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Perhaps you have read my words of childhood listening? Me as a small ball on the floor, soft, red blanket methodically tucked around so as to secure myself from the wolf who was spinning on the record player as the horn section.

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in tens

. . . . the realization when you look back is that you have moved forward, in both what you have accomplished and in how you have made mistakes.

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Big Bearded Heart

We knew nothing of the slow growing cancer that was also with us. And your antics spoke of the discomfort of anniversaries, of not knowing how two people could dance in a celebratory space.

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carry on

Maybe having my baggage checked isn’t about putting it away, but rather opening it up to take a look-see at who it is that I am sharing . . .

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