"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o're wrought heart and bids it break." William Shakespeare
The culmination of days, and weeks, and months of fear and trepidation of the dreaded anniversary of Scott’s death last Thanksgiving eve came, and where am I…where are ‘we’? I so desired to tie these chronicles up in a tidy little bow, all worked through from heinous nightmare to strong and brave wife and mother, …
The waves crash against the rocky coral, spilling into the natural rock baths as I watch from my cement block patio while the rain continues to relentlessly fall on beautiful Jamaica. My Rangeley Lakes ‘Relax’ tee shirt sticks a bit to my hot body, and I certainly don’t mean that in an attractive sense. Jamaica is generously …
How long does a mole, created for these dark and dank places, stay submerged in the shallow bowels of the earth before it emerges into the sunlight? How long can one, left behind and not created for the darkness, stay in that subterranean world and still survive? Like the mole, would our eyes have become so accustomed …
It was the word cemetery, and rows and rows of white tombstones glistening in the sun of what would have otherwise been a perfect day, that shifted the tenuous, stoic peace I held tightly to in my heart. Andre and Ashley handed back another tissue, with which I attempted to subdue those oh so familiar spasms …
Oh Scott, this week will be such a bewildering onslaught of painful events! Our anniversary is in two days and I dread the loss of your face across the candlelit table, the long-stemmed, red roses you always brought, and the chocolate covered strawberries after, with a bottle of champagne. I kept all the anniversary cards …
I laid on my back in the rich green grass and stared up at the impossibly blue sky with its brilliant white lines and, suddenly, he was there again. At first I wasn’t sure, as he stood between some type of thin columns. But then he moved to the side and smiled. Or, perhaps, I …
It's been a bad spell. Turmoil within, turmoil without. Perhaps the problem lies more in that I continue to grieve so harshly and painfully, Scotty, when at nine months, I think the expectation is signs of progression forward. Understandably, people have returned to their lives and the world keeps spinning around, although it seems that would …
I awoke suddenly, with a start. I couldn't tell if it was late dusk or early dawn, but the sky was a strange iridescent grey and persimmon with silent, stoic mountains and ramrod straight pines, both silhouetted in charcoal and black as if superimposed on the scene as an afterthought. It was morning again---another too early morning …
A parade of beaded raindrops made its way down the windowpane in parallel rivulets. I watched the repetitious journey and felt my wet cheeks in sympathy. Like the endless mantra of rain and mist that falls from the sky in the cool Pacific Northwest, the pall of grey hangs chronically over my life. The tearing asunder of souls …
There is light at the end of every tunnel. Keep moving. All you need is a little faith. At first I saw only blackness; the deepest darkest blackness one only experiences in nightmares. Standing blindly, on the edge of the precipice of a bottomless cavern echoing back my anguished cries, I was both fearful and yet …
