When We Die

4837682207_f99b2224d6_mA text from a friend: “What do you believe happens when we die?”

She’d recently lost her son. He must have been no older than his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Over the years, she had told me enough about him that I knew he was troubled. I didn’t really know what kind of trouble. I knew she worried about him, about his ability to take care of himself. I don’t know how he died. I can only imagine.

But I cannot imagine what it feels like to have lost a son or daughter. I want to comfort my friend, but I don’t know how. [Read more…]

The Soul of the Law

e7eccc8e1b84a088At the beginning of the old Norton Anthology of English Literature (4th Ed.) appeared this account from the medieval chronicler Gerald of Wales:

The Lord of Chateau-Roux in France maintained in the castle a man whose eyes he had formerly put out, but who, by long habit, recollected the ways of the castle, and the steps leading to the towers. Seizing an opportunity of revenge, and meditating the destruction of the youth, he fastened the inward doors of the castle, and took the only son and heir of the governor of the castle to the summit of a high tower, from whence he was seen with the utmost concern by the people beneath. [Read more…]

Back to the Drawing Board

colorbookTo say I can’t draw myself out of a cardboard box is to assume I know how to find the opening in the first place. I’m not spatially oriented, to say the least. I’ve always struggled to transfer any sort of mental vision to physical form, whether it be drawing, floral arranging, or applying a streak of eyeliner. I’m stymied by reading (as well as refolding) maps, folding sweaters, or closing Chinese takeout containers.

[Read more…]

Trouble Called Again Last Night

Carphone useTrouble called again last Thursday night. The number illuminated in the landline phone’s small window. Mother. She’s eighty-four now. Father’s eighty-seven. They sold their house—where we lived when I was in in high school—about twenty-five years ago. Moved into a condo. They’re still living in the condo, independently.

A few nights earlier, during one of my routine every-other-day-or-so phone calls with her, Mom told me that Dad had a cold. He’d spent most of the day sleeping.

Dad’s a big guy, height and girth, though his impressive belly has deflated considerably over the last few years: a few hospitalizations, a diminished appetite. Though he doesn’t complain about it, he suffers from painful arthritis. With a cane, which he uses reluctantly, he shuffles around the condo, and inches his way from condo to car to restaurant to cardiologist to condo to couch for TV. He hardly has the strength to push himself up from the sofa. Gravity is calling him home.

[Read more…]

How to Visit a Grave

Guest Post
By Shannon Huffman Polson

1. Drive down unmarked road in rental car to a quiet circular drive. Try to ignore the weight of undefined expectations.

2. Wish that expectations were defined. By you or someone else.

3. Push away the thought that the name on the back of the stone is the same as your name.

4. Take a deep breath. Before opening the car door, flex your stomach muscles in case memories come at you kicking.

5. Walk to the stone. Try not to remember the burial. The gaping hole. The depth of it. The cold of the day. The sound of dirt. The color of clay. [Read more…]