good lord, show me the way.

Stop. Drop. And selfie. + a black dog photobomb. A moment today that included a genuine smile.

…and then Henry wanted in on the fun, too.

Nearly impossible to summarize the past few days…North Dakota, being on the road, the sunsets, the immense amount of work, the roller coaster of emotions, the amazing help, the late night trip home, the exhaustion, this day of gratitude…

I don’t know where to start and so I’ll start right here. With this moment on my kitchen floor. This moment when the Thanksgiving festivities were all over and we all missed Carl and I felt a little consumed by how many days ahead of me I have without him. I came home and put on his old flannel shirt. I was all alone and not knowing how I felt about that, but ended up smiling because my dog Ella attacked me with love and then Henry wanted in on the fun, too. Which leads us right here to the present moment.

And all the while I’ve had this song playing over and over and over in my head…for over a week. I dream it, I wake up to it, I hum it, I pray it, I fall asleep to it. I hear it while I drive or tend to tasks. Over and over it keeps playing like a song that Carl is sending me, just like he always used to do.

Good Lord, show me the way.

worn.

I miss the man who used to fill these boots.

I don’t have time for many words. There is so much to do, in such a short time. But one thing I do want to take the time to say is that I love you, Carl Bratlien. You were my cowboy and my heart is with yours…forever.

{originally published Nov 24, 2014}

this journey

This journey. Difficult and love filled.

{originally published Nov 24, 2014}

booked flights. peeled potatoes.

I did it. I booked my flight. I’m going to Florida for my 40th birthday. The trip that was going to be a gift from Carl, has instead been gifted by something I can only call grace.

Honestly, it’s been a rough day. It’s been a day of tears. Lots of them. Yesterday wasn’t all that easy either, but then the goodness started flowing in. A quickening occurred. My neighbor and his two strong friends hauled a trailer full of hay over from the barn so that it would be closer and easier for me to feed the horses. Another friend texted an offer to help me pay for the flight to Florida. At the exact same moment, someone else, who isn’t even on facebook and therefore doesn’t see my posts, texted me an image of a crystal ball in the hand of a woman, lit with sunlight and magic on the beach of an ocean. She wished me light and love. These three things happened simultaneously and, in that moment, the gaps of my doubt were brightly, divinely filled in.

Later that night, I went to celebrate Carl’s brother-in-law, Steve’s, birthday. It was a special celebration because his life, too, is a gift. He’s had to overcome his own hurdles. In my brain-fog, I almost forgot about the party. Then I didn’t want to go. Then I changed my mind. I went and was grateful that I did. It ended up being just what I needed. I came home to an email with a commitment from a new client, one that’s been hanging in the wings for the past couple weeks.

I’ve also been gifted with two places to stay–one a high-end Miami Beach hotel and the other my very own grotto near the ocean. I was offered friendship. A place to follow jungle roots or space to cry into the sea.

I went to bed last night feeling exhausted, amazed, almost overwhelmed by the speed and depth of it all. I had another dream about Carl. Another adventure. And his spirit was with me.

Tomorrow I’m leaving for North Dakota again. I will be finishing up loose ends, tending to remaining details. I leave early. There’s still lots to do before I leave and I can’t seem to get my energy to settle down enough to write. There is a part of me that dreads this particular trip out west–the finality of it. Carl won’t be there. His room is clean. Nothing is the same.

Constantly, this contradiction between grace and difficulty. I sometimes feel like I’m walking in a bog. The ground constantly moving, changing beneath me. There is death and beauty in every step.

On Thursday I peeled potatoes with Carl’s sisters. We peeled potatoes and talked and listened to soft music. I felt peace. We were sad when the job was done. I wished I could have peeled a thousand more potatoes because, for that time, the depth of my loss held still. This morning I went to listen to a friend sing at the Unitarian church. I had never been there before, but I braved my own unknowing and let myself in thru the front door. The words of her song, her voice, the acoustics of the guitar she played: her beauty condensed. So perfect that it caused cold, plump tears to streak the skin of my face. Reaching my chin and then holding there for a moment before disappearing into my lap. I couldn’t stop them. I sat in a room full of mostly strangers and, silently, with my eyes closed, I wept. That same friend who sang such a beautiful song will accompany on my journey tomorrow out west tomorrow. We don’t even know each other all that well and, yet, there couldn’t be a better person to be holding this space with me. These gifts, they just keep showing up.

But this trip to Florida…this is something. The way I feel him so close to me in all of this. I was supposed to go on this trip with Carl…and it seems that I still am. He is so entirely woven into all of it that, without a doubt, I know I am meant to go. I decided to rent a car and leave much of the trip unplanned. Going there to see where Carl leads me…even if it’s only to the ocean where I’ll probably have a good cry.

This photo, it is one I took in Spain, near the border of Morocco and the Strait of Gibraltar…it’s a million lifetimes ago. I’m so heartbroken and perplexed by where this journey is taking me. But, Carl, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.

{originally published Nov 23. 2014}

miracles that dwell in the invisible

Last night I dreamed of Carl. We were at the airport waiting for the boarding of our flight to be called. There were a lot of people buzzing and bumbling around us, a particularly busy terminal. And at one point, Carl and I sat down together, looking at each other with radiant smiles out the corners of our eyes as we reached for each other’s hand. We felt bright and excited to be going somewhere new together, silly with the sensation of love, anticipation and fun. We were on our way to Florida–for my birthday.

It has been a morning of tears. Because, you see…
This was really supposed to happen.

We had been tossing ideas around for a few months. Carl’s birthday was exactly one month before his funeral. It was our first birthday “together.” Things got busy out west and we weren’t able to celebrate his birthday side by side. I was so bummed about that, but we made the best of it. Carl sent me a video of him playing music on his porch. He went for a nice hike. He called me a dozen times. Throughout the day, we took turns keeping each other from feeling sad about the miles between us. He told me we’d make up for it on MY birthday. Over the course of the next few weeks, he musta said to me more than a dozen times: “There’s a lot of things I don’t know, but one thing I know for sure is that I WILL be with you on your birthday.”

You see, Carl didn’t make commitments he couldn’t keep. Ever. If there was one thing that drove me crazy, it was his inability to commit to a plan. I always thought I was the spontaneous one in the crowd. Ha! Carl had me beat by a million miles. It was also, in some wild way, something I loved about him. He could go with the flow like nobody’s business.

For a long time, I’ve been feeling like my 40th birthday would be a hard one. I don’t have a problem with my age or even aging for that matter. I never have. But this year needed to be special. It would be the thing that would carry me forward with a sense of hope and inspiration to make this life what I want it to be. Carl and babies, my art and adventure and building a life together were a part of that dream. It was the totality of the dream, really. We had big, BIG dreams together and, the thing is, we were the type of people that would actually make them come true.

Last night, I got a text from Carl’s brother, Andrew, saying that it had been a particularly hard day for him. It was for me, too. He said that he had told his wife, Tiara, that there are so many days in the past year that he’s wished he could will his heart to stop, but can’t. He said that there’s some purpose for us here and that sometimes he feels like the only thing pulling him forward is this curiosity to see where it goes. He couldn’t have said it more perfectly.

There is this impulse to curl up in a ball under a mountain of Carl’s blankets and never move again. And, yes, each afternoon I have been laying down with Carl’s favorite raggedy old quilt. In these moments, Henry (Carl’s dog), snuggles in next to me especially tight, the weight and smell of Carl’s blanket instantly causing him to relax and sleep. I breathe it in, deeply. My other two dogs curl themselves around my legs and, often, it is during this time that I feel Carl close to me, talking to me, telling me things I need to hear. Telling me that I can do this, that he loves me, that he’s with me. He tells me things that I can’t even remember. And, eventually, something causes me to get up. Maybe it’s Carl, pulling me by my hands out of bed. It is not a place to stay. There is still life to be lived, even if that feels mostly impossible right now.

In the dream, just as we were about to board the flight, I realized that Carl was nowhere to be found. He was most likely meandering, curiously taking in the world and talking on his phone. I was starting to panic. All the moms in my life showed up and began looking for him, having him paged on the airport’s intercom system, spelling out his name, touching the arms of strangers. Everyone was looking for him and, meanwhile, in my mind’s eye I could see him, happy as a lark, drifting in the wrong direction–away from me. He wandered slowly by the airport bookstore, touching the covers as he talked on the phone. He was smiling and enjoying himself. Meanwhile, the pilot was trying to get me to try on different shoes. Some of them were Carl’s shoes and, somehow, Carl was tricking them onto my feet without even being there.

For a long time, I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do for my birthday. I kept asking Carl, “What do YOU think we should do??” Every time he responded by telling me that we should do whatever it was I wanted to do. He would take me anywhere in the world. It would be his gift to me. We were going to make it fit into my impossibly busy pre-exhibition schedule and so I decided we shouldn’t waste too much time on flights and getting over jet-lag. We considered Puerto Rico, the southwest and a million places in between. We’d save a motorcycle trip across Australia or Chile for March, when my show would be complete and Carl would have more time, too. Then my dear friend, Kristine, found out that a gallery would be representing her artwork at Art Basel in Miami Beach, FL. It is a dream come true for her, and (as artists) for both of us, really. Art Basel is a crème de la crème of success in the world of Fine Art. Carl and I decided we would go there–to celebrate Kristine’s success, and also sneak away to celebrate my birthday and each other. On Friday morning, Carl told me he was going to purchase the plane tickets the following Monday.

Monday never happened. On Monday I was helping put a cross by the side of the road where Carl was killed.

So many dreams–vanished–in a puff of cold air. I am lost; I am sometimes floundering; I’m not sure how to proceed. I have enough tears inside of me to fill an eighth ocean.

I took this photo while sitting by Carl’s side on the shore of Lake Superior this past summer. It was one of the happiest moments in my life. I must have told him I loved him a million times that day. We were talking about babies and adventures and all the goodness that we couldn’t wait to step into together. It was ridiculous how good I felt, Carl holding my hand that whole entire day.

I know that miracles dwell in the invisible. The prayer is that I will make myself available to them.

My life continues. I love you, Carl.

{originally published Nov. 22, 2014}

whale song

I woke up this morning in the still-darkness of night. My cat, Viscosa, was meowing and crying from the loft for some attention. She’s made a new home up there because it is not exactly safe on the main-floor with Henry. I have made a habit of visiting her space more regularly so that she can snuggle and climb on me and feel loved. I like it up there, too. It’s warm and comforting, different than the rest of the cabin, a windowed nest in the pine trees. I climb the wooden ladder to get there and pretend it is a place removed, where time and circumstance can exist, suspended.

This morning I made my ascent in the darkness and laid down on the air-mattress that’s been being used as the guest bed. It’s comfortable and for a moment I pretend I’m floating. My winter cabin is tiny. Although its size has nearly made me crazy in the past, right now I am grateful for its smallness and the way it enfolds me, a soft container, a burrowing place. I am about to fall apart at any given moment, but in blessed wrinkles of time, I feel held by this small structure and all it’s contents. It’s a precarious cradle. I take what I can get, wherever it can be found. These little moments of snugness are like crumbs in a painfully hungry belly.

As I write this, I am wondering what this might be like for you to read. Some of you I’ve known forever, some are almost complete strangers and some of you loved Carl, too. I don’t know why I keep writing here except that it is the one portion of the day that I can count on experiencing a sensation of clarity, if even for a moment. Wordsmithing (or whatever this is)…it feels tactile, like metal or wood or ice. I’ve always tried to keep my posts optimistic. In a way, it was my meager contribution to the world…although, let’s be honest. My facebook posts were a selfish endeavor, a means to a perspective that helped me to continue seeing the positive in my life, even when things were mostly going wrong. It became a discipline, a daily ritual in noticing beauty, even in its simplest form. And now? I no longer remember who I was before all of this. That woman is gone. Replaced by this stranger, this shell of myself. Here I am. Sharing my darkest, most painful moments, vulnerable, stripped down, but still trying to find the beauty, even in this. I pray that I am not upsetting anyone or dragging anyone under along with me. I am writing because it is the only clear space that my spirit can find in all the hours of these long, long days.

This morning, as the cat purred near my pillow, I felt an echoing sound. It was so gorgeous and other-worldly that I didn’t quite trust what I was hearing at first. The sound originated from somewhere in my womb–a whale song–gliding, ricocheting, gracefully hurdling forward through a crystalline shaft of fractured light. The sound propelled itself outward from that deep place inside of me into all of nature, through the pine forest and then diving beneath the surface of the icy lake. The lake outside my cabin is freezing. This ethereal whale song, it is a prayer, maybe even a healing. It is a hope, a communion, a mothering heartbeat that I wish to hold within me. That echoing sound, a celestial passageway, connecting me somehow to all that is, all that was, and all that will ever be.

It sounded a little like this.

WHALESONG :: ~by Denis Martindale
As wondrous as the stars at night,
That shine so bright and strong,
The precious joy that brings delight
Is that the whale has song.
The siren of the sapphire seas,
With tunes so lyrical…
To me, these are the things that please,
With each a miracle…

Perhaps it tames the savage beast,
As one of God’s celebs
That glides below from west to east
Mid music of the depths…
Perhaps not with another whale,
But there and all alone,
With love his only Holy Grail…
Or Philosopher’s Stone…

Like happy humans humming tunes,
Like hummingbirds and such,
The lonesome whale’s seen many moons
And dreams of love so much…
When whalesong’s played, we listen close,
To each new siren call…
There’s only one thing each whale knows,
In life, true love is all…

I love you, Carl.

[originally published Nov 21, 2014}

the cats

Carl loved animals. I didn’t think anyone could love animals more than me, but he might have had me beat. He had a gentle heart and wanted to rescue everyone and everything. In nearly every single photo taken of Carl during the course of his life he’s either holding an animal, a baby or a guitar. He wasn’t afraid of the camera and in all of those photos he is wearing a bright and beaming smile. He held nothing back. Sitting around the Bratlien family’s kitchen table, I’ve loved going through all the family photos. I feel like I’ve known him his entire life even though, technically, I didn’t meet him until I was 25 when he came out to generously help put the roof on my house. He was a friend of a friend. It took us 15 years to become a couple because, as Carl and I often acknowledged, life was doing its (sometimes brutal) work on us, hammering us into shape to become a perfect fit for one another.

A couple day’s after Carl’s death, we traveled to his home in North Dakota to tend to the details of his life out west. Carl’s mom, me, and Carl’s extra “dad” (an old family friend of both Carl’s and mine). The three of us were a good team. We were at the height of shocked grief and, honestly, I don’t know how we did it. But we had each other and I think making that journey is what each of us needed, each in our own way. Upon arrival, we were met by a handful of Carl’s employees and friends–some of the most deep-hearted people I have ever met. Together, we worked. We leaned on each other. We told stories. We survived.

Janet and Chuck got two rooms in town. I stayed at the house out on the farm where Carl lived. I couldn’t bear to leave Carl’s environment for barely a minute. It worked out well. It gave me much needed time alone and a chance to get to know the guys and to walk around the house in Carl’s slippers, the ones he loved so much because they belonged to his dad who unexpectedly passed away just the year before. His slippers fit like boats on my feet, keeping me afloat, and yet somehow fitting perfectly, all at the same time. I saturated myself in the smell of his clothes and blankets. Really, it was the only breathing I did in that whole first week.

But there was something that took my breath away.

The cats. Upon waking, I went to let Henry (Carl’s dog) out, but was met by a horde of meowing and soft paws scratching, a velvety movement outside the frosted door. I have never felt such a sense of wonder and love in my entire life. To finally meet Carl’s cats, the feral cat kingdom that he had been taking care of, feeding, and trying to tame these past many months…there they were. He was trying to tame them so he could get them fixed, find homes or simply help them survive the elements. There were cats of all sizes and ages. Some just tiny bumbling kittens, some older with crooked ears and keen eyes, plus everything in between.

Sometimes Carl would call me and he wouldn’t even say hello. Instead, he’d excitedly launch into telling me about Sarah or Mathilde or Lucky or whatever stray cat he had gotten to crawl into his arms that day. He named them all. Never mind that he was allergic to cats. He couldn’t help himself; he couldn’t help but love them. He somehow managed to get all his employees, a bunch of guys, to join in on this cat-loving project, too. Carl was an animal and kid magnet of the most extreme kind and so taming a herd of feral cats came easily to him. At first the cats would be scared of him, but he took his time. Next thing you know, they’d be purring like engines, tucked in the folds of his jacket or nestled in his lap. Carl, this huge guy with the most tender heart I’ve ever met.

When they packed up all of Carl’s guitar equipment, the cats jumped in, too. I think they were prepared to follow us all the way back to Minnesota. I had to smile the next morning when I saw all the cat tracks on Carl’s amps. Those cats LOVED him! A perfect detail added to Carl’s music obsessed heart.

The day that Carl died, we all gathered at his mom’s house. The day is a blur, the grief incomprehensible. But there are couple of good things that happened that day that stick in my memory. One was the pileated woodpecker that showed up outside the dining room window, where we were all sitting. The woodpecker sat there for a long time and stared in at all of us. I laughed and said, “Leave it to Carl to show up as a woodpecker!” Some people get a sign from the beyond in the form of eagles or hawks or some other noble creature. Our lovable, joking woodsman, Carl, showed up as a funny looking bird! Carl, the logger, a bird of the woods. It was a moment of laughter because it was so “Carl.” I’m quite certain that he laughed along with us.

The other thing that happened at the time of Carl’s passing is that a stray cat showed up on Janet’s doorstep that very same day. It made itself known in a very big way…begging for attention and fried chicken and banana bread. Oh, Carl!! I have to admit, I am smiling and giggling a bit even as I write this. Carl’s 3 year old niece, Barbara, has appropriately named the cat “Meow.” That cat is on a mission to make itself known! Meow, meow, meow…it weaves around our legs as we walk, it jumps on the sleds with the kids, it runs your way as soon as you arrive and tries to go with you when you leave. The other night, as I was walking to my car to go home, Meow stuck like glue to my feet so that I could barely walk. I said to the night, “Ok, Carl, I hear you! We will take good care of this cat!” smile emoticon I picked him up and snuggled him in my jacket, an instant purring machine. But I can’t bring him home with me because I already have one cat and Henry is not at all cat-friendly. Janet can’t keep him because she has two cats and Carl’s stray is simply too forward for them.

We’re looking for a GOOD home for Meow. It’s Carl’s spirit cat and I’m sure whoever he ends up with will be meant to be. Meow is a male who seems happy enough to be an outdoor cat, but might also REALLY love to come inside. He loves kids. And I’m quite certain he’ll love YOU. He has a big personality and so, if you have other pets, they would need to be ok with that. We also think Meow might be part dog. Yes, he’s that kind of cat.

Carl won’t let us ignore this one. And anyway…we don’t want to either.
Update: Meow found a loving home shortly after this was written. xo

We love you, Carl. We love your tender heart and the way it continues to show up. Always and forever.

{originally published Nov 20, 2014}

silence.

This morning, I am suspended in silence. The sky is grey and it is snowing. The horses are purring as they eat their hay. It took them a moment to give into their current contentment because I forgot to go to the farm supply store to buy more sweet feed yesterday. These small, but seemingly impossible tasks, they seem to add up. Even so, the horses are forgiving. As I brush snow off their backs and rub their muscles, they bend their giant, gentle necks so that their head can rest against mine. Their eyes are soft. They’ve been particularly sensitive towards me since all of this happened. Sometimes I think they’ve transmuted into elephants, the profundity of their sentience has grown so large.

Horses. They’ve become my healers for the past several years, in significant ways. I reached out to wild horses and started to build a life around them. It didn’t take long and then these two horses, Colorado and Dakota, unexpectedly walked into my life. Again, I reached out to them; I fed and watered and brushed them and, in exchange, they breathed some newfound life into me. Their trails started carving out new paths in my life. The most significant trail led to Carl. If it weren’t for these horses, I’m pretty sure our paths might have missed each other. Or rather, these horses were brought into my life because this was going to happen all along. I feel like this story was written long before either of us could have ever known–our marriage of spirits and Carl’s death and whatever is to come. There is a word that has whispered itself to me often since falling in love with Carl. The word is “Maktub,” an ancient word that means “it is written.” Our relationship has felt this way, to both of us, since the very beginning. We trusted in it completely.

I still trust this. But I’m not yet up to the task of healing. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, staving off this horrible feeling of anxiety that continuously keeps creeping in around the edges. Even so, the horses keep reaching for me. Their reach is so soft and unassuming that the near-imperception is powerful beyond measure. This reaching–from friends and family, strangers and animals–causes moments of lightness and lets the peace sneak back in. Sometimes I even feel Carl wrap his arms around me. He lets me lean backward into his spirit and says: “I love you, baby.” He repeats this as many times as I need to hear it. He tells me to follow my heart. He tells me that I’ll know what to do. But I can’t always feel him and, when I can’t, that’s when the anxiety comes. I plead, “Please God, please God…help me.” And, somehow, maybe these and everyone else’s prayers are working, even when I’m not sure of it at the time. The depth of my grief causes me to clench every muscle, every thought, every movement. But eventually, a softness occurs…my body isn’t built to stay frozen forever.

Even so,
This silence…if it doesn’t already exist, sometimes I create it.

Carl and my life together was always alive and connected with phone conversations and texts and sharing music. It was constant. In the most painful moments, I attempt to hit the mute button, a survival technique that doesn’t help at all. Eventually, the music will want back in. I can’t yet listen to it. Carl filled my life with music, our life together was built of it. For now, for today, I’ll just try to listen to the directions of a friend and attempt to enjoy the snow. I’m grateful for her suggestion. It allows me a way to be at peace with this silence. I love snow. These snowflakes, they are gentle, like Carl.

**the photo of Carl playing mandolin in my studio while i painted. i loved it when our creative spirits found a place to be together.

{originally published Nov 19, 2014}

the guest house

Today, another day, not like the last. Moving me forward, quietly, painfully, beautifully forward. The seduction to just curl up in a soft ball, punctuated by dog kisses, cat purrs, a running squirrel outside my window. I love you, Carl.

THE GUEST HOUSE
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
– Rumi

image credits: Christer Karlstad, Norwegian figurative painter

{originally published Nov 18, 2014}

the thing is…

Friendship. It is a miraculous thing. It’s been filling in the cracks where Carl’s earthly voice and body and love used to be. Henry and Ella are somewhat inseparable today. They’re also known as “HenryElla.” A name that somehow stuck when Carl and I would call them to come in from outside. We laughed at that because the combined name rolls off the tongue so nicely. smile emoticon They were always the last ones to come in…and, well, nothing has changed about that! My big dog, Louie, lays on the floor beside them. I’ve got a good four-legged crew. But what I also have is a tremendous human tribe, too. It seems cliche to write about it, but many times I have thought about what it would be like to be going through this without this kind of support. Carl and I were both people magnets, each in our own way. I sometimes had to laugh (and worry) about how full our life, together, might become. There have been times when I’ve tried running to the ends of the earth just to be alone, but people came looking for me anyway. There are other times when, because of the nature of my work, the feeling of solitude becomes overwhelming. It’s a Catch 22 and yet, somehow, this problem was solved by being in a relationship with Carl. We were there for each other in an easy way, always, in the quiet moments, in the busy moments, and all the moments in between. We were surrounded by loving friends and family and yet we enjoyed our time just the two of us, too. It was the best of all worlds, really. Amazing.

Last night I saw a friend who I haven’t seen in over 20 years and others who are willing to travel to the ends of the earth to be with me. Gifts like this just keep showing up. And then there is Carl’s people…his family, his friends, his employees. I’ve loved Carl’s family from the beginning, but now that love has deepened to the center of the earth and the width of the universe. Carl surrounded himself with good people and, really, he saw the good in everyone. He talked and texted more than anyone I’ve ever met. And so now…messages, phone calls, texts from Carl’s friends and family…oh, it is like gold to me. Please don’t stop. Eventually, I would have gotten to know all of these people. But now we’re left to do it on our own. Horse people, woods people, business people, family people, work people, church people, international people….SO many people populated Carl’s world.

I am grateful for it. And ol hairy legs, Henry…well, he is too.

Here’s a poem for all of us, from my friend, Britta…

The Thing Is …
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again. ~Ellen Bass

Peace and friendship. To all of us.

{originally published Nov 17, 2014}