Tag Archives: grief
We are not here to tiptoe through the garden at night. We balance on the edge of a slow-whirling blade, a smooth silver plane with teeth, belonging to a star, unnamed, its heart a fiery proof and fade of joy … Continue reading
Every cradle begs of its dark a stairway to star grief and love.
At the risk of harbor, emptiness pools where hearts marvel in sync with grief’s ruins.
Scars worn out to fade, old records played in small hours– Dreams chased by morning.
From morning to noon, the roses gathered to grieve the loss of their bloom. (Photo by David John Lotto)
You know the story, the bench, the promise, the waiting, the interminable stretch of waiting, and the love that never returned, as the girl became a woman and then dead. You know the legend, how the woman is still waiting, … Continue reading
My father and I visited my mother’s grave. Nothing about it felt profound or moving. It felt like a prescribed exercise in courtesy, a bland ritual. One thing that gave it a dramatic feel: it was raining. … Continue reading
Remember when we were kids and we’d sometimes have sleepovers and listen to the dark together? That’s what you called it, Anya, listening to the dark. Sometimes we’d pretend to be camping. We’d make a tent on my bedroom … Continue reading
One thing we cannot recover is time. Perhaps that’s what I have been trying to do. Perhaps that’s what every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a heartsick orphan, as the fool-hero in their own movie is … Continue reading