A Fleeting Shape Glimpsed From the Corner of the Eye My first memory of God: I was five or six years old and feverishly rubbing a white crayon into a dark blue piece of construction paper. May 4, 2022
Feedback Loops The photograph of my mom refuses to leave the auditorium. We jiggle the cords, but she’s still there, twenty feet tall and gazing at the water. March 5, 2022
The Electrifying Mojo Had the Most Reassuring Voice I Ever Heard His spirit runs through nearly everything we hear today. March 27, 2020
The 45th Parallel You can feel the geography shift when you see all that big pine and cold water. February 16, 2020
Philosophy Is an Ambulance Grief can arrive on a gust of wind, a glimpse at a calendar, or a half-heard snippet of conversation on the street. January 26, 2017
The Last Year of My Father I thought grief would be dignified and monumental like a tower shrouded in mist or quiet days spent weeping in a dim room. January 21, 2016