Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you wake in the morning hush, I am the swift, uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night. Do not stand at my
... See moreGary Kowalski • Goodbye, Friend: Healing Wisdom for Anyone Who Has Ever Lost a Pet
How do we talk about the loss of a thing for which there is no word? The lack of a word implies that it was never anything. It was never real. But here I am in my kitchen and the height of a child is marked on the doorframe. Here I am in my living room and I am still finding Nerf darts behind the couch. There it is, evidence of my love. My pain. I
... See moreChristina Joyce Hauser • The Crane Wife: A Memoir in Essays
She was a vapor that in my imagination continued to burn without a wick.
Elena Ferrante • The Story of the Lost Child: Neapolitan Novels, Book Four
It was taken some time ago
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the backgro... See more
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the backgro... See more