Autobiography
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.
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.
You can feel the geography shift when you see all that big pine and cold water.
Grief can arrive on a gust of wind, a glimpse at a calendar, or a half-heard snippet of conversation on the street.
I thought grief would be dignified and monumental like a tower shrouded in mist or quiet days spent weeping in a dim room.
