Grief

Cloudy skies with a high near fifty degrees. The snow is melting quickly, leaving behind grey-black slush and patches of dead grass: a scene like the bleary-eyed aftermath of a really good party. The sun goes down at 6:01 tonight, and the moon is in its first quarter. We’

There are over a thousand responses from visitors now, far more than we anticipated at this point.

New York City. Sunset: 6:30pm. A new moon. Heavy clouds and damp air, a high of 66 and a low of 57 degrees. My father would have turned 73 today, and I still do not know how to mark days like this, which I suppose is why I work

They’re talking about new spikes in Brooklyn and Queens. They’re talking about the president’s taxes, how he grifted, dodged, and only paid $750 when he bothered to pay anything at all. His supporters think this is proof that he’s clever because our system rewards those who

Insects buzz in the trees like bad reception, but the nights are finally cooler and crisping up.

If I hadn’t been absently flipping through an old journal tonight, I might not have remembered that my mom died eleven years ago today. I felt guilty for losing track of the date, as if I’d abandoned my post. But over the years, my observances have drifted towards

Yes, I wept during Biden’s convention speech. And I was annoyed by my tears, even a little ashamed. But why? I wanted to flatter myself as a media-savvy cynic who’s immune to a televised assault on my emotions. But I sniffled through those well-produced biopics as I remembered

Sometimes I dream about tollbooth operators, the half-glimpsed faces with cigarettes nodding on their lips, their left hands forever clutching a quarter and a dime in change. They are the interstate’s guardians, the nation’s unmoved movers among the restless current of people going someplace else. After looking into

Sometimes I find comfort in a two-thousand-year-old myth about a Chinese emperor.

Today is Mother’s Day. There are still so many emotions that I will not or cannot unlock. I planted some tomato seeds in a small pot on my windowsill. This seemed like a decent way to remember the days I spent by her side drinking sun tea while she

Wendy’s has no meat for its burgers. The virus can change the color of your toes. People keep talking about a return to “normal,” as if there’s such a thing. Yesterday I went to a store that’s selling antibacterial wipes for $27.99. As businesses begin reopening

We took a ship through the Finnish archipelago towards a small island in the Baltic Sea.

Maybe the universe is sympathetic, after all.

Grief can arrive on a gust of wind, a glimpse at a calendar, or a half-heard snippet of conversation on the street.

On January 5 I walked along the sea in Crete and remembered my father who died on this day last year. The things I should have done, the desire to rewrite the past. But why punish myself with guilt? A line from Bergman’s The Seventh Seal nattered at my

My father would have turned sixty-eight yesterday. I do not know how to celebrate him now that he is gone. I know he would smack me if he saw me brooding, but I cannot help replaying his birthday last year when we sat in a Wisconsin steakhouse one month after