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