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.

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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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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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