Today marks two years since my father died. Grief softens over time, although it never quite goes away. Last year, I thought of my father every day, and remembering filled me with great sadness. Now, memories of my father filter through other memories, through chinks in my days. Sometimes he visits me in dreams. Sometimes we watch old videos of him and my mother visiting: his voice mingles with those of my children, of others living, and it feels as if he is here, with us.
I feel him more than I did; letting go of the constant sadness opens me somehow to his presence.
Of course I write about my father; his living and dying inspired me in many ways, and still does. I think of these small pieces as offerings, as cairns to mark his existence and my memories...
--An interview about how grief and anger led me to write NUMBER 72 and I SHOULD NOT HAVE RUSHED YOU THROUGH THE RAIN up at Connotation Press
--Letting go where my father loved best, the Outer Banks...THE BLUES ARE RUNNING
--Shared grief: a man and a squirrel: STONE
--A small poem, THE LAST TRIP, nominated as a Best of the Net by Camroc Press Review
I write to remember. I write to process my emotions. I write to share you with the world.
Dad, the day is breaking the dark now, a gentle fog shrouds our yard, but already I can tell the day will be clear and blue and full of sun. Today I will keep you in my heart, and mom, too. Peace...