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.

Chamomile

My friend revels in reminding me of my first description of you – a burl of a loving man.

My cup runneth . . .

I wanted to extend my care for you. To you. I wanted to help you pass, further. I wanted to grieve you, truly grieve you. I didn’t want you to be gone. I wanted to honour you. I wanted your struggle to be over, but I struggled after you were over. I wanted a ritual.