Category: Rewriting Life After Loss
Learning to readjust and rewrite (literally and figuratively) and live again after the loss of your child.
Words
I found “Willower” on UrbanDictionary.com (someone added it this year). Okay, it’s an online dictionary of slang words and phrases but I like their motto: “Define Your World.” Intentionally or unintentionally, isn’t that what we humans do, define our own worlds? Though willowers have the added lifelong challenge of processing the death of their child,… Continue reading Words
This morning
Sam would be twenty-two today. Every morning, I wake up to ‘reality’ and shake my head. But there’s something heavier about milestones, anniversaries, and birthdays — the rudest awakenings — that make it harder to face the day. So when I open my eyes and notice the time, 5:51 a.m., the moment Sam was born,… Continue reading This morning
Returning
Dear Willower, I’ve let too much time pass since writing to you. Every day, I think about writing you. I think about posting and then get busy, or distracted, or just lack the energy. I tell myself it doesn’t matter anyway. What good is yet another blog post in this overcrowded Twitter world of ours.… Continue reading Returning
Disconnect
Musing about anything in about a hundred words. Just because.
My Tree of Life
It was a ten-inch tall mini-tree in a small plastic pot that sat on the coffee table in the living room. Sprinkled with silver glitter and embellished with tiny silver ornaments. An impulse purchase at Target one December years ago. An attempt at decorating for the holidays, at living.
Willower defined
To dance with my father again
If I could get another chance
Son and Moon
Son and Moon It is my death before my death, my time before my time It is my loss, my grief, my son, my way . . .
Words of Hope
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
The Missing Letter
I have no more words. Let the soul speak With the silent articulation of a face. – Rumi
To the nines
“Form is exactly emptiness, emptiness exactly form.” Buddhist “Heart of Perfect Wisdom Sutra” Sam, It is the year of the Monkey, the ninth of twelve animals in the Chinese zodiac cycle. And, the ninth year of living without you—and your monkey-hugs.
Joy
Months after Sam’s death, and shortly before he was gone too, my father, always trying to cheer me on, reassured me that I’d find joy again. I disagreed. I didn’t want joy, happiness. I was consumed with grief, and wanted to die too. He worried about this, I’m sure, which added to his grief.
