Miss the Dead, Not the Living
June 28, 2016
I really miss my dad. Since he passed away suddenly almost four years ago, the grief of losing him has been a constant companion, always lurking just out of sight, waiting
I really miss my dad. Since he passed away suddenly almost four years ago, the grief of losing him has been a constant companion, always lurking just out of sight, waiting
49 children were murdered in a night club in Orlando. 49 sons and daughters, carried in the swollen bellies of mothers who waited breathlessly for them to arrive. 49 nurseries prepared
One morning last year I woke up and was told I was trending on Facebook. A day earlier I’d written a blog post response to the father of a college student
Mother’s Day. For many people that means flowers and handmade cards and Sunday brunches and waves of laughter. It means celebration and gratitude and warm embraces and great rejoicing. It means
I really miss my dad. Since he passed away suddenly almost four years ago, the grief of losing him has been a constant companion, always lurking just out of sight, waiting
49 children were murdered in a night club in Orlando. 49 sons and daughters, carried in the swollen bellies of mothers who waited breathlessly for them to arrive. 49 nurseries prepared
One morning last year I woke up and was told I was trending on Facebook. A day earlier I’d written a blog post response to the father of a college student
Mother’s Day. For many people that means flowers and handmade cards and Sunday brunches and waves of laughter. It means celebration and gratitude and warm embraces and great rejoicing. It means