Joy is my middle name. Not happy. Not flippant. Not sparkling rays over perpetual blooms and grass that tastes like candy. Joy. Desperate and scrappy. Joy is not my partner’s smile. It’s the kindness in his crinkles which cover two decades of wounding and repairing. Joy is not my dog’s scruff. It’s the affection of a pure-hearted creature who doesn’t know, like I do, that her longest life is still so short. Joy is not the positive pregnancy test, it’s the promise of life when loss permeates even the noblest hopes I stick high up in the sky where the sun always shines. Joy invites you to stand on shaky…
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Not To Go Gentle
Today marks seven years since my mother died. Seven. There was a time I thought it impossible to get to one. Seven years without her voice, without a cuddle on the couch, without arguing over politics, without hearing her exasperated scoff in my direction, without the smile that made my whole body feel warm and safe. The night she died I slipped away from anything like light. I have never perceived a darkness so all-consuming. Part of it was that I had some expectation of how her death was supposed to go. Soft and gentle. Peacefully embracing Jesus. I had heard enough stories about dying people suddenly opening their eyes…
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From the Bottom
I’m writing this from the middle of it—somewhere close to the bottom, I hope—but I won’t publish until I’m at least far enough through that I can look behind me. So if you’re reading this and it seems heavy and you feel like I need professional help or as though you must urgently tell me something to rescue me, know that I appreciate you and also that I’m okay. If I’m not okay then I won’t publish this. It will be published posthumously, by either Gabe or Beth, whichever one finds this funnier first. I’m having what I can only assume is some kind of long form anxiety attack. I…
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A Visit for a Sip
I take a sip and I’m there with you in the tiny living room, in a quiet morning while the babies sleep. Before espresso and milk frothers came into my life, it was drip and some chemicals we called creamer. And it was you. Us. With stronger coffee than anyone else in our family enjoys and tired smiles. You didn’t get to see this house. The one we bought on the exact two year mark of your death—signing and dating a thousand times like taking paper cuts to my right hand. You didn’t get to see the daisies that grew wild in the front yard (or did you and Jesus…
