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.
Autobiography
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.
Feedback Loops
Slush and Stone
January 6, 2022
This Is the Third Time I Will Leave New York
April 22, 2021
Some Terrible Paintings
Leave Your Children in the Woods
Birds
Observance
Pegasus
Tornado
Bell
Dark
May 10, 2020
Coherence
His spirit runs through nearly everything we hear today.
The Electrifying Mojo Had the Most Reassuring Voice I Ever Heard
Quiet
Communion
One of the Finest Things I Own Is a Lamp
You can feel the geography shift when you see all that big pine and cold water.
The 45th Parallel
Birthday
January 22, 2020
Information
Grief can arrive on a gust of wind, a glimpse at a calendar, or a half-heard snippet of conversation on the street.
Philosophy Is an Ambulance
I thought grief would be dignified and monumental like a tower shrouded in mist or quiet days spent weeping in a dim room.
The Last Year of My Father
The Prevention of Dying
