On writing

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On writing

It tapered off slowly, the writing. I’d find myself starting a new post with the bemused observation that it had been two months since I’d last written. Then it had been three months, then five, and now I might write twice a year. The last post was for her birthday. January. The only post this year. It’s been a crazy year, this one. But still, I wonder what happened to time when I passed it all writing. Where did I find it that time? What did I ignore or neglect or simply cease to notice while I was writing? How is grief so all-consuming and then one day… it’s not?

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The alternate universe

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The alternate universe

Hi! Last time I saw you, you were pregnant, and you must have had the baby! Congratulations! I signaled back with a grimace and gesture at the phone to indicate that I was on an important call and couldn’t talk right now. After our run-in, Jill was still walking around in her version of reality in which my daughter was alive. Our wordless interlude had given me a glimpse into an alternate universe — the one I wished I lived in, in which I had a phone full of photos of my soon-to-be toddler. The one in which people’s faces light up when they run into me on the street.

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The aftershocks

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The aftershocks

It’s hard to inspire, or to stuff down the hard feelings, when my sense of security has a crack in its foundation. Nothing feels safe or guaranteed anymore. Chaos rears its ugly head at families and homes every day, and I know mine is fair game even though we’ve been struck by lightning already. My ears are always searching for the acknowledgement of chaos (e.g., “hopefully” instead of “definitely”) when I listen to plans and assumptions for the future.

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