grief is how we love
(no pasta today. well of course there is pasta today somewhere but that is not why I am here.)
NOTE: the following was written to be published EIGHT months ago. 8 MONTHS!
This is how long I have avoided many things, or perhaps have had to put on the back burner many things, including my writing, as well as sharing my writing. So this piece, take note, was written in March 2023. It was not fully completed then, but I just wanted to share it.
It is about the the Grieving Mother. I am allowing it only for my paid subscriber’e eyes — mostly because it feels like sensitive material and I only feel comfortable sharing it with those who are truly invested in just being here, supporting raw writing, and to be honest, a smaller group of folks. If you are one of those, please feel free to subscribe (and following this post there will be another “course” — 4 weeks of content and prompts — for paid subscribers on “food as ancestors” (tis the season). So if you choose to sign up, you will not be forgotten and good things will be coming your way. Thank you for your support.
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I am currently in North Carolina. On the cusp of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I didn’t come here to escape the cold of the northeast. Though I was hoping that would happen, it’s cold and windy and rainy here. It is heavy sky, the kind I was used to daily in the Pacific Northwest. White gray. Gray white. A large, flat, low monotone color pressing into the horizon, touching the dense green of the white pines.
I came down here to bring my daughter to see a few colleges, but also to spend time with my sister, the oldest one, the first of seven of us. She was 20 years old when I was born.