And somewhere in there, as my hands ached from the work, I began to grieve
Supermarket Sweep is what gets me the closest, catapulting me back to a time when we were alive, together.
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.