Loss of Mother
Death, Rock Me Asleep
An excerpt from Lisa Pullen Kent’s book: “Death, Rock Me Asleep” O death, rock me asleep, Bring me to quiet rest, Let me pass my
March 22, 2022
An excerpt from Lisa Pullen Kent’s book: “Death, Rock Me Asleep” O death, rock me asleep, Bring me to quiet rest, Let me pass my
We heard the train a long way off in the distance. A throaty rumble tunneling toward us, sooty plumes of smoke spoiling the blue skyline.
Something pulled me out of my dream. A voice, a hand on my shoulder. “Sharon, I think she’s going.” I slipped my bathrobe on and,
It’s the little things. The dumb, stupid, tiny things that rattle in my brain when I think about their absence. It’s my dad not texting
I like it dark. I like it really dark when I’m sleeping. The sheet and blanket pulled over my head, the light peeking through the
I do not envy Lord Krishna when he meets my mother in his Heavenly Abode. Before she passed away in the COVID ICU, my mother
Around 4:30 on the first afternoon of any June in our last years together, she would say, “This time _ years ago,” and I would
Yiddish was Mom’s first language. She was not even exposed to English until she went to kindergarten. Yiddish was also the secret language that my grandparents reverted to when they did not want us to understand them.
We caught on fast and learned to crack the code. We knew that gib a cook meant “take a look”; that gay gezunte hate meant “go in good health”; that tsorris was “suffering.”