Over the last few months, I’ve put out a couple of blog posts about the process of my mom slowly dying. She’s been fighting lung cancer, and last year it metastasized to her brain. The docs gave her until about…
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The sun is shining. I have coffee in hand and lemon yogurt in tummy. The floor is once more covered in black dog hair, and the laundry seems endless. My office is slowly taking shape: it was pulled apart, over…
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The sky is a crisp blue against the array of earth-toned leaves still hanging on to their perches. Squirrels dig, industrious, through the crackling fallen, searching out nuts, insects, whatever it is that squirrels search for at times like this….
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My mom always had a garden, everywhere we lived. That’s the first line of a eulogy I’ve already begun writing for her. Here’s one of my notes, jotted down during a doctor appointment this time: …the clinical staff seem really…
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Begin where you are. I’ve given that advice so many times it seems etched into my bones. When you’re at a loss for what to write, start with something real nearby: the temperature, the humidity, a flower outside, a smell….
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