A quilt made by my great-grandmother became a life preserver when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
“The phenomenon of lonely deaths for aging populations echoes in many pockets around the world.”
“I am unmoored, my place not easily defined, my presence not immediately understood.”
His bluegrass band at the gravesite? Check. No embalming? Check.
Staying in contact with biological family no matter what they’ve done is a message beaten into us from every side.
“Does cursing beget being cursed? Had I brashly yielded a power unchecked, unaware of the consequences?”
The students turned a gray patch of earth into their own tiny Eden, a secret oasis of their own.
A homecoming could happen across many continents. It was not a physical place, but a family’s embrace.
We inherit trauma through the actions of family members and through the stories they share.
We remember only a version of the story, and we tell only a fraction of that version. And sometimes, even that will fail us.