Waves
I dream her every night. So far, they haven’t been dreams of comfort, but dreams of discontent. Perhaps it’s my own body, my own soul, fighting against what has been made true by life and death, by the limits of our corporeal selves.
Misty, Watercolor Memories
Someone asked me today how I was. It was a casual question from a casual acquaintance. The kind of question in which the one who’s asking expects a “Fine, thanks. How are you?” But that’s not what I said. Instead, I awkwardly blurted, “My mom just died.” “I’m so sorry. We all go through that. […]