What I gathered (besides the fact that I could probably use some professional therapy) was that, nearly two years later, I’m still grieving my mother’s death (and — though the dreams of my dad are far less frequent — close to seven years later, I’m still grieving his, too).
She looked at me like I was fucking orphan Annie. – Me, Thanksgiving Eve, three sips into a Long Island Iced Tea It’s the best of times. It’s the worst of times. The holidays, however joyful, are never easy in the days, weeks, and months following the loss of a loved one. The heavy hitters […]
I pack up what’s left of my adolescent bedroom, once plastered with poorly ripped pages of Seventeen magazine, high school horror stories and Sharpie, now a deep teal I had taken months to pick out of a catalog with two “grown-up” Home Goods boards full of precious moments (up to and including my 21st, 22nd […]