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 night I got a text at 2:30 am. "Jeff just passed away." I couldn't believe it. I still can't. My friend Bridget -- the one who carried me through the worst work of dismantling our lives in Kauai, who has been there for me for nearly a decade of raising babies, nursing, potty training, parenting, homeschooling, working-- her husband Jeff died suddenly of the flu. He was a beautiful man. A hard and lean Portuguese Hawaiian Paniolo-- soft spoken, bright eyes, long white ponytail. Thick pidgin, soft voice, gentle with all the babies, gathering the children into his lap. How can he be gone? He wouldn't show up to a party, but he'd show up to build you a fence or move your house or brand your cattle. He'd work harder and longer than anybody. Life is a little surreal-- the last time I saw him was when he and Bridget had packed up my container with our whole battered dusty lives inside after my own crusty Hawaiian cowboy died, leaving his stunned and b...