Mother’s Day ended up being a Mother’s Week, the few days of writing became a frenzy, and last night was an emergency. The emergency was a friend’s mother, and at least now she’s in the hospital and settled a bit. It is, my mother would say, the end game. (And she meant that in good spirit, applying it to herself as well as others.)
And we lost Tom Wolfe. Who had to die before anyone saw him in anything other than a white suit.
So we breathe, sit, and listen to wind chimes.
Now the catching of breath can be done in different ways, while still the anchor of grief tugs beneath the surface, breaking through the current of the river as we tow it beneath ourselves.