Stephen Dunn is a celebrity in my house. I quote him all the time on this blog. If I write a passive aggressive this is meant to burn someone Facebook post, I do it with poetry — usually, that means Dunn’s poetry. He’s as famous to me as David Sedaris or Stephen King, which means he’s as notorious as James Cameron or Peter Jackson to a normal person who doesn’t douse their life with literature. I started reading his work in…
This whole “rebuilding my life” process isn’t going as smoothly as I hoped it might. Partially I blame grief, but when you grieve as long and as deep as I have it’s easy to blame grief for everything. Grief is like just getting out of the shower on a cold morning when the heat hasn’t kicked on yet, and someone throws a towel over your head. You’re wet and cold. You can’t see anything because there’s a fucking towel over your…
I hate it when people refer to ages in weeks or months. Like why are babies “61 weeks” instead of a year? I’ll break my own rule and say it’s been 20 months since Tim died. That’s less than two years, more than a year and a half. Every month seems important, so I count them. Maybe it’s the same for weeks with babies. Maybe we measure massive growth in the most finite unite possible. It’s surprising to me how much…