Not a poem, really. More like a stream of consciousness… He was alive on Mother’s Day. Did he already know? Was a plan in motion?
Two years before my son died, he spent a little over three months in jail, first awaiting extradition from Chicago back to California, and then
Why do we gather when someone dies? It’s a major milestone in both the deceased’s life and the life of his/her survivors. It’s often too
I WORRIED I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was
What’s one of the first things we’re told when we experience loss as young children? When something disappoints us, or our feelings get hurt, or
I could not have said this better…