Yes, this system is imperfect. It took years—and the privilege of professional help—before I’d learn to articulate my grief in words.
The grief of the pandemic era is ongoing. What happens if everyone is sitting shiva at once?
I had tried to show the world that I was resilient, never fallible, but my unwillingness to deal with my sadness and anger was hurting me and my daughter.
I still wonder, what is the right amount of time to grieve?
When your maternal grandmother dies from breast cancer, there’s this strange intersection between her health and your mother’s health and yours.
There is no guidebook or set of rules for us to follow; there is no concrete “American” etiquette around death.
I wish I could talk to my mom about the irony that, forty years later, shelves are being ransacked and we are standing in lines to buy bread.
“My father, was alive, in me—in my reflection, in my voice, in my posture.”
On space debris and a father's remains.
Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
My heart’s deepest desire was to see my mother again, yes, but also to glimpse a portrait of normalcy that I had never known in the years of her illness.
I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.