This will always be the day the sun shone, the son murdered, the world outside your door kept spinning without you. Impossibly, we are left here hundreds of days since July 10th received its brutal, sacred meaning.
“Did Poppi kill the bear or save it?,” asks my son months after my dad was buried.
Because for a while I was with & never without her. For a good bit my mom was fully, really here.
This. This is how the world ends.
Oh, friends. I’ve wanted to tell you, but there are no words. No words big or right or clear enough, no clue in my hurting, spinning mind of where to begin. I have hovered over this keyboard for two months feeling almost ready and then backing away. But I need you now. We need you now. So …