(Mama) will you wash my face

Now when she sees I seek alone
She comes to me, she asks

The Conductor

If you
crouched down
and focused your view,
pieces of me
were visible in
the distance.
Firmly clutched yet
completely invisible
to the carrier.

Grief Love

As if picking up grief – in this case – was also picking up the mirror I kept trying to wipe clear, and turning it around . . . Pulling my shoulders back like a mother would tell a child that grew before the other kids, and boldly holding up my mirror like I could Say Anything.

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.

rock me mama

Each hand on the other elbow. Heavy cotton, the only thing holding her in. Enshrouding her. She watched them go.

In Celebration of Dying Young

Death is all around us at the present moment. Covid is taking people we know, or it is feeding fears of our own death. For me, Will is a reminder that death can be a celebration, even when the circumstances argue otherwise.

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.

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 . . .