Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

  So something really, truly terrible has happened, but not to you. To your best friend, your sister, your parent. To somebody you love and care about. It’s bad. It’s super, super bad. Like, epically, tragicomically, telenovela-level bad. The kind of shit that would make for bad writing-- too over-the-top awful for fiction.  And what can you do? You can’t fix it. You can’t undo it. You can’t rip it up by the roots or time travel and unplant the seeds of it. You experience the adrenaline urge: RUN towards it, or run from it, FIGHT it, break it into a million pieces, FIX it. FREEZE and stare blankly at the flickering lights above the Arby’s (the most romantic place in Night Vale). You get a burst of terrible energy-- DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING. Okay, so you and I, we’re in this place. What to DO?  (Am I writing this for myself? Yes. If it helps you, I’ll be really happy about that.) First  First, remember-- No wait. Actually first, have a drink of water. Dr...

 The other day I didn't feel grief. It was so strange. It wasn't all day-- it was just for a few minutes, but it happened. I felt, for a moment, whole.  It has been five and half years since Matt's suicide. That's how long it has taken for time to soften this grief. So yes, it's true that time heals all wounds. But, hah. Think of geologic time, pals.  I am happy-- I have amazing things in my life. Cool smart talented kids, kind and loving friends-- I have plenty of rice and plenty of books and plenty of herbs and plenty of beet greens and a rattly old piano that's only missing one string but it's in the lowest octave so it's not too much of a nuisance.  I am happy and I have been breathing grief-oxygen for five years. I am happy and I have been wearing grief skin. The other day, I was briefly free and clear of it. The sun shone through the clouds and I looked around at my life with pleased surprise. Oh! I'm okay! Wow!  Today the normal pain of grief ...

Death is Stop It's a shock every time how complete the end is no loose ends for the dead. They left their luggage on the train. I have not cried enough for my grandma So last night I dreamed her funeral again  every pulpit talk and choir and cried "I don't believe it" I sobbed to my dad in the pew as I dreamed him grieving, too. I dream often of Rising tides Salt water lifting its soft cheeks up towards the sky the moon leaning down like a grandmother to kiss