Last things || On Letting Go and Empty Nests

Last things || On Letting Go and Empty Nests

I can feel it, this thing. It hangs in the air like a winter’s dingy fog, filling space and controlling the atmosphere of the soul. Foreboding. Present. A dread. The gray slithers in, a quiet bully, trying to make me forget the sun is just beyond that somber...
The First Last

The First Last

Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What’s that suppose to mean? In my heart it don’t mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved I almost missed it because I was so self-absorbed.   The first...

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