Tag Archives: mourning
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
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.
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
A rocking chair stilled, white on white, burning, no sound– So long, Marianne.