Grief Dialogues The Book
We Danced
We danced when we thought you would live. We were tourists among the ghosts in Old Town Albuquerque walking past the crowds past the Navajo
January 5, 2022
We danced when we thought you would live. We were tourists among the ghosts in Old Town Albuquerque walking past the crowds past the Navajo
A few years ago, my mother handed me a set of faded papers browned at the edges and neatly tri-folded to fit in a slim
Grandpa was a patient, genuine and respectful man devoted to our grandmother, his children, and grandchildren. Today, on the anniversary of his death, and the
I remember times when Truth was inscribed in capitals, like the opening lines of an illuminated manuscript its compulsive fantasies emblazoned in the tinted ink
“It’s not okay,” were the first and last words I gave Sierra, a courageous fellow author who asked me to sign her book. She’d read
I’m wearing old shoes and will for a while yet the grief still holding close. Sometimes when the longing for a single living thing overcomes
Some have been gone for years, others for days, months, a few minutes. It has been nearly 10 years since I last saw him. In
My son, eight years old and afraid he’ll catch this virus and die, is already mourning. Even if I live to be old, he says,
I’m being cut open on a stage, in front of everyone and no one can help me or knows what to say; I just stand
I stood in the doorway as the clock ticked, knowing every minute that passed was taking him one step further from life. They talked about