I Want My Mommy and I’m Glad She’s Not Alive for Covid-19
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.
The Price is Rightanted her to say that everything would be okay. She was the only person who could cast that spell and make it stick.
I am suffering, I am suffering, I am under siege again, and this time I am losing ground.
OhThis is your old age. This is your frailty. Once, you held me. Now I hold you.
You are mine to take care of.
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More in this series
I’m stockpiling sweaters because they signify refuge, collecting them like talismans though grief cannot be avoided.
Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
There is no guidebook or set of rules for us to follow; there is no concrete “American” etiquette around death.