When I was dealing with the trauma of finding out that a little boy I had taken in as a toddler had grown up to become a terrible person I
Had three things
I decided to use as grief-points:
Get a nose ring
Shave my head
Get a tattoo.
This week I have had to face that sometimes “a tattoo” is a luxury item
In a pandemic
In the way grief
Can worm its way into the fabric of who a person is
I am losing something else
Like a tattoo, a marker of the grief
And I found what I would put on that tattoo–
You name it
The thing you will lose
Give it a fictional name
Tell Quint not to wait for you
Because this grief
Is just killing time
I know something about being pregnant in a crisis. My heart goes out to any women who are facing a pregnancy in the midst of economic hardship and fears of Covid-19.
If you or someone you love needs support or prayers. Please leave a comment and let me know how I can help.
I can’t stop thinking about how he lets us
Draw pictures in the wet cement
Our little hands, our squiggly messages
No one would call this art
But they might call it
Mine, fierce love
There are things that happen in the indelible. First, time becomes a character in the story, exerting control over both the narrative and the heart rate. It moves through each room, touching old pictures and hidden spaces, spinning a cocoon so thick it makes normal movement impossible and must be pulled apart like spun sugar
Old you out to sea, pared down, bereft
Write down promises
On every doorpost, every lintel, every exposed beam and limb
Let the words become living things
A forest in the house
Revelation 19:16 NIV
 On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:
king of kings and lord of lords.
She calls him King of Heaven. I like that
Evoke the way you effortlessly possess
The sky, the clouds, rolled up One Day for something new. I want to gather these flocks of clouds, the silvery colors of this matchless afternoon
Wonder what is written on you
Wonder what you will write forever
Mark me out as your own
Darling, I have no right to
Look for you
At every bus stop, mailbox, broken sidewalk, out of the corner of my eye as night falls
No right but your love, so true
Been there all along
“Now more than ever” they say addressing “these uncertain times” while the quiet is a lovely, spooky thing
Like Prufrock’s curling fog or the calm eye at the middle of every storm
I play the sober girl’s version of a drinking game–keep a running tally of each meaningless thing we say
To ellipsize all the scooped-out half moon lost stitches
In the story of our world
I have watched (read) coverage of a big (really big) powerful (really powerful) Entity which has been recently caught out lying.
This particular lie involved a lot of people, maybe all of us. The Entity is pretty powerful.
And I have lived in the place they do. So I shoot off an email detailing my pain over the lies, the way victims’ voices were suppressed, the great need for western journalists to hear and report the truth.
When I went back to my sent folder the email had been erased. No content.
What happens when Big Brother can silence little sister? What happens when we, the free, let him?