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Until it does.
The odds of losing a child before you lose yourself…by age 60, in US, is about one in ten.
I was only 45 on May 9, 1987, when it happened to me.
I am reading Fi: A Memoir of My Son, by Alexandra Fuller, whose son died at the same age my son did (21), 37 years ago. The quote above is from her book; It has been an accidental read--I saw it suggested at the bottom of the last kindle book I’d finished and having loved her other books, ordered this one.
Read moreI gave a reading of my poetry two nights ago, here at the Virginia Center for the Arts, and it was incredibly well-received; there couldn’t have been a better audience. I felt great, the poems I chose made a good arc, and the discussion afterwards was excellent.
Read moreI’m at a writing residency, struggling with what to write next—blog post, another poem? Just now I walked over to the kitchen, where we go to pick up our box lunches. I usually come back to my studio to eat so as not to be distracted from what I’m working on by the desire to chat, as there are always fellows (that’s what we are called here) there, but today I sat down and ate my tofu salad with A and C, badly needing the break of human connection.
Read moreEven my fifteen-year-old Saab is in better shape than I seem to be these days. It only needs a visit to the repair shop once a year, when lately I seem to be constantly in need of one.
Read moreI was going to tell you about the great Zoom re-creation of my women’s writing group last Sunday, when seven of us joined for the day to express in words the many feelings and thoughts prompted by poems I shared, but I’m not going to do that.
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