Grief



February 9, 2022

Slush and Stone

Ohio. The snow is melting quickly, leaving behind a scene like the bleary-eyed aftermath of a really good party.

October 13, 2021

Extension

Sunset: 6:18pm. A high of 70 degrees and 84% humidity. Spent a late night at the cemetery chapel, tending to the responses to After the End.

October 5, 2021

Respiration

Sunset: 6:30pm. Moon: New. My father would have turned 73 today.

September 28, 2020

Dots

If I’ve gleaned anything from keeping this glum journal throughout this year, it’s that I keep returning to the language of grief.

September 19, 2020

Spectrum

There’s a problem with modern grief, a rupture that cannot be filled with squishy words like mindfulness and acceptance.

August 24, 2020

Observance

Tonight I sat outside in the unfamiliar terrain of southeastern Ohio, lit a candle, and watched the stars.

August 20, 2020

Machine

An empathy machine sounds like a pretty good leader right now.

July 3, 2020

Toll

Sometimes I dream about tollbooth operators, the half-glimpsed faces with cigarettes on their lips, their left hands forever clutching a quarter and a dime in change.

June 30, 2020

Shadow

Sometimes I find comfort in a two-thousand-year-old myth about a Chinese emperor.

May 5, 2020

Options

People keep talking about a return to “normal,” as if there’s such a thing.

January 13, 2020

Cabin

I stared at the empty cabins along the shore, half-wondering if I was still dreaming about my father.

January 5, 2017

Guilt and Grace

“I often wonder why people torment themselves as soon as they can.”