Tag Archives: mourning

Wither

From morning to noon, the roses gathered to grieve the loss of their bloom.   (Photo by David John Lotto) Advertisements

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Gravesite

  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

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Of Time and the River

   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

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Pigtails

   There was that day you wore your hair in pigtails.    You were thirteen. Pigtails and a pale blue summer dress. I think the dress was new.    My mother had died three days earlier.    You and I … Continue reading

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Kiss

Among the feathery downs of dark, and silvery quiet, I find you, time and again, the filigreed stem of a lush red rose, a night kiss sealing air in shuttered mourning.

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Death of a Super Hero

   I was six when I found out I’d never become a super-hero.    We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother, my father.    My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading

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Marianne

A rocking chair stilled, white on white, burning, no sound– So long, Marianne.

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