Posts Tagged ‘#WYG’

Day 25: Carving Grief

November 1, 2018

Yesterday I was ambushed by grief.

In a coffee shop to my right was a judge reviewing cases with a red pen. To my left was a Kenyan-born immigrant who spoke six languages. Me, in the middle, heartily crying for my little love’s loss. It was Halloween, one of the days of the year, he woke up with his eyes alight and alive and the excitement of costumes and customs and candy coiled then springing into action.

I cried from fumes of sadness. From the sight of a pumpkin on the porch that I had no drive to carve. No jack-o-lanterns this year.  And I cried for the invitation to the class party that I did not receive. I cried for one less costume to stress and pull my hair out about not buying on time or building from orphans in the closet or finds at the thrift store. I cried a snotty-nose, red-faced cry.

And who do you think was the one who tried to talk to me? It was not the white-haired, wire-rimmed judge with his busy red ink.

But that’s fine. Because there are some days, like Halloween, when I don’t want to talk because I know that everything is wrong and there is no right. There is no justice. It is not fair. Words fail. There are sightings of dead black cats who liked to trick-or-treat with us. There are messages from friends that we love but have not connected with in months.

Who is making those connections? Who is drawing the dot-to-dot? Not me. I am too busy crying and weeping and wailing. It must be someone waiting. Waiting for me to return from this sadness, so that I can see him. Look through the wet, swollen eyes. Past the tears and the tea and the quiet. And move on to more. Is he waiting to play a board game? Did he move a white pawn and now its my turn?

Oh, the black tide of loss rolls in just like the Pacific. On time. Predicable. It saturates everything with saltwater and washes what we once knew away. But we still have our memories. The forts in our minds are strong. We’ve built sturdy and fine embankments.

What is the invisible form of my departed?  Is he wearing a Wily Wonka costume? Yesterday, for Halloween he was dressed as Captain America, again, just like his then eight-year old, now nine year old friends. They didn’t address me as “Mrs. Lill” or say anything, like, “I am so sorry for your loss. There are no words.”

They were themselves now nine and they just were. The were the visible forms of my departed. No red ink; they did not judge. They asked nothing. Instead they sat with me, in their classroom room, where I did not get an invitation to be, but they brought me, and him in, anyway. Sitting with me, speaking one language. Love despite loss.

They are the hearth in my soul where he sits. They remind me that he is here awaiting my return. All the time.

Today, I sit in a similar, but different coffee shop and I still cry. Its been twenty two minutes of writing. I don’t miss him any less because I miss him all the time. But I think I feel better. I think I won’t go home and smash pumpkins that never because jack-o-lanterns.

For Grief ~
by John O’Donohue

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks…
And you are thrown back Onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.
It becomes hard to trust yourself.

All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.

More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal

And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air

And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

Day 21: Gritting Teeth

October 28, 2018

Day 21:

I remember his teeth. He had an overbite. His smile was a facsimile of Michael’s; they both shared those big buckteeth. One time, when we were at his semi-annual dental examination, I asked the dentist what we should do about his overbite. He said, “Enjoy it. Enjoy that big, adorable smile. He is going to need some serious dental work down the road.”

He never got there — down the road. But he never stopped smiling. Even in his very last week, when morphine coursed through his veins to calm the nerves and dampen the pain and he was bloated from steroids and his blood oxygen was diminishing so extremities are were starting to shut down, he still smiled for every picture. He smiled on his last full day of life when he played his unclothed version catch with his four-year-old nephew from his hospital bed. And even when he played his dementia clouded last round of Uno. He put down four cards at once and declared himself the winner, with a big smile. None of us were heartless enough to say otherwise. That smile won us over and him the game.

I remember the first time he smiled. Of course, everyone says, newborns are really passing gas when they look like they are smiling. But with him, even though he was only four weeks old, I knew. I could see from the shine in his eyes that his heart-warming, gum-baring grin was a genuine reflection of inner joy and warmth. I didn’t know, back then, how bucktoothed he’d be. I didn’t even know what color his eye or hair color would become.

With his sister, it was clear from the start. Her rich, espresso colored eyes, with their flakes of gold were fixed from the moment she arrived. But many babies often start out as grey. “Eyes like the sea after a storm”, as the line goes from one of my favorite movies, The Princess Bride. His stormy sea eyes became a sun-soaked, soft summer pools of blue. Red-hued hair lightened to the color of golden straw. After it fell out, the first time, it grew back as dishwater blonde. Does anyone even know what color dishwater blonde is anymore? All dirty dished are stacked, and then packed into a machine. It’s a color lost to technology. We’ll rename it toffee and chemo colored. Though he disliked toffee because it alway got stuck in his teeth. Chemo highlights hair with a change to course texture and tinge of grey from growing up and old through the experience and being soaked from the inside with toxins. Eye and hair colors evolved but that smile stayed the same with two pearly white teeth poking out.

Somewhere, in the bottom of sock drawers and jewelry boxes, I have an assortment of baby teeth collected and socked away by the Tooth Fairy. She would leave a two-dollar bill, in exchange for swiping the tooth from under his pillow. I don’t know why the Tooth Fairy had me keep them, maybe it was for this very instant – now, in the case I have his teeth but I don’t have him. I wish I had been more organized and dated and identified each dental remnant. I should have archivally housed these artifacts in a museum quality fashion. Acid and lignin-free environment. Luckily, I had the accidental foresight to store them away from damaging light. Now, I grit my teeth. If only I could remember where they all are. Then, I could string them together and draw on my love and my memory to build back tooth by tooth that baby, bucktoothed version of him.



Prompt: Choose something. Anything. The more ordinary, the better: shoes. Kitchen table. Garden hose. Bookshelves or tea pots or underwear drawers. Choose anything as your subject.

Write: I remember…

From Megan Devine’s Refuge In Grief Write Your Grief Workshop


Day 15: Grief is everywhere

October 22, 2018

It was in a simple email today. I’ve been avoiding my grief by creating distractions: writing, reading, taking long walks and pottery. And I found a friend that I could wallow gnashing of teeth. Like the company of the crowd at the feet of Jesus on the cross. I am there, dust covered face streaked with tears and snot running down my nose as I heave and cry and try to purge some of this pain that crucifies me at the break of every dawn sort of way, even though I am not the one dying or dead. And the crowd, cheering and jeering, at least, provides company, even if it is not the best.

Friends, I know you are near I know I am ugly and not just need, but want this distance, so that when it is my turn, you remember me well. The prettier, more put together version of me. Its not even me that I want you to remember. It’s him. Think of him and how he endured and was brave and smiled. Eat chocolate cake.

Day 8: I am Grateful

October 15, 2018

I’ve become friends with another bereaved mom. She lost her twenty two year old daughter to leukemia nine months before Ewan died. Her daughter, Karen, was featured in a New York Times article highlighting the promise of immunotherapy. Karen was an example of how things don’t always work out. I clung to her daughter’s story and the hope and life that she was rallying to recover for. Karen journaled her story online and I followed. When her site got quiet, I reached out. Sady, Karen’s mom, Chris replied in her place to let me know that Karen had passed away. At this time Ewan was still alive and in remission.

Chris and I stayed in touch and, as a part of her promise to Karen, Chris continued to write on Karen’s blog. Chris emailed encouraging messages when I shared that Ewan had relapsed. She wrote, “No response necessary…  I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you, and hoping that things are going as well as they can.” of course another mom who has been in the thick of treatment is gracious enough to offer up “No response necessary”.She offered sound advice, sent books and connected me with Karen’s doctors. Now knowing the pain she was going through, I am amazed that she could even get out of bed.

Some days, Chris is the reason I get out of bed. I see her write about her family, travel and caring for Karen’s siblings and it reminds me that I am not alone in this pain. If Chris can keep moving, I can keep moving.

She is honest about her shattered world. Chris shares her shakey hope in a god. “As much as I have trouble with the whole concept of God these days (because why would anybody take these beautiful children, and leave so many cruel people here???) I have to continue to believe in the Heaven part, because I can’t bear the thought that I won’t get to see them all again.”

She gives me a space to feel understood and comforted. She allows me to allow myself to own my doubt in why anything happens and life and existence itself. Its an honor to know her.

Last night, I was at a workshop on building resilience. Practices such as cultivating gratitude and paying attention to how I walk into a room (pausing to breath, and being aware of my emotions) were discussing. The message that most resonated with me realizing the difference in the voice I use when talking with myself versus when talking with a friend. When it comes to me, I am a harsh critic. With friends, I express compassion and patience. Chris voice, from across the country, teaches me how to talk to myself with kindness and compassion, even in the face of what feels like the most miserable failure.

I am grateful for Chris.



The truth is, we all need a mentor.
Especially inside this wholly disorienting grief,
inside a culture that cannot and does not understand. We each need a guiding star, an example to live into.

Today’s prompt:

Tell us about a guiding star inside your grief: are there people – whether real, mythological, or fictional – who live their own grief in a way that gives you encouragement, inspiration, or direction?

If you don’t know of any, can you make one up? Create a wholly fictional, fantasial role model: someone (or thing) who lives with grief in a way you admire, or in a way you just find really neat.

How has this person affected you? What feels possible in the light of what their life is?

From Megan Devine’s Refuge In Grief Write Your Grief Workshop

Day 7: “I Feel Powerless.”

October 14, 2018

Day 7:

Free form is fine, but you are also getting a haiku.


unrelated rats
embrace anxiety stress
resilience nature

“I Feel Powerless.”

premature death
no more flow
no grow



For your Sunday prompt, let’s get a little creative.

Find a Sunday paper, or any newspaper (even one of those free dailies will work).

Open the paper to a full spread – one with lots of articles and words, not a bunch of photos. Get yourself a highlighter or colored pen.
Close your eyes for a moment, take a good deep breath (as deep as you can).

Exhale, and begin to lightly scan the paper, underlining random words from all over the page. What you’re doing is building a found-word poem, or a short prose piece, by taking single words from various sentences and joining them together.

Let the available words dictate what is written, but don’t feel stuck to one article or column. You can ramble all over. Try it a few times: you’ll be surprised what you find.

From Megan Devine’s Refuge In Grief Write Your Grief Workshop

Day 6: Kindness

October 14, 2018

A friend called me up and asked if I’d like to take a walk today. She shows me kindness in all sorts of ways. She has boxes of tea delivered to my door. She takes my daughter out for ice cream. She drops off books on grief (like It’s OK That You’re NOT OK). Today, we walked through a wooded park then over to a town square. We passed a coffee shop. Inside, we bought cups of tea. I paid as my way of acknowledging her kindness — kind for kindness. We walked on with tea in our to-go cups. A child riding her bike passed us by. I recognized the child; she had been in my son’s class. The girl’s name reminding my friend of a story. She shared that childhood friend of hers who died in a head-on car collision.  The truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and the truck jumped the media and hit them from the opposite direction her friend and his wife died instantly. Their ten-month-old baby in back survived. For 2 minutes, as I listened, I forgot about my grief and listened to her as she shared sadness and tragedy.

That’s kindness. Seeing and being seen. Sharing and listening. Extending a hand, making a call. Not being alone. Companionship over a cup of tea. Kindness takes two and takes thoughtfulness.  But I can be alone and be kind. It is extending a hand to my sad self. Listening to my sad self’s story and offering my own shoulder to cry on.


Touching in to your grief can be brutal. Even when the pain never leaves you, sometimes purposely turning to face it can be exceptionally hard.

So today, let’s focus on kindness.

For all you have been through, for all you have seen, kindness:

Let me be to my sad self hereafter kind.” – Peter Pouncey, Rules for Old Men Waiting: A Novel


Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

“Kindness” by Naomi Shihab Nye, from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems.
© Eighth Mountain Press, 1995.


Prompt 6:

What would it mean to offer kindness to yourself in your grief? What would kindness look like?
How do you, or how would you, “be to my sad self hereafter kind”?

From Megan Devine’s refuge in grief, Write Your Grief, Grief Writing Course


Day 5: Meet Grief

October 13, 2018

Day 5: The Undraining Drain

Drain running but slow draining, frothing sludge pools in the basin. The shower is clogged again. At the core of the problem is a nest of coppery and blacken crud. I grip and tease off the tangle of hairs from the round, shower drain strainer. But it’s a futile fight. Everyday fistfuls come out and fall to the floor. I return hoping today is my day to wash away pain but it’s back and backed up; it’s plugged and pooling up at my feet again. Soaked feet seep up and heart hurts — capillary action. When will the hairs stop falling out? I should have shaved head, like his, long ago. No use now. My insides are the same as that pipe. Gritted and coated with build up of soap scum. Gummed with hair. What was intended to get me clean has clung to my insides, now I am unable to do the simplest of jobs. My drain arms are broken. Nails have been driven in from the underside. And the trap is jammed. All tomorrows are backed up, too. 



For day five, I’d like you to try a different kind of prompt: one that focuses on the craft of writing.

If you were writing fiction, you’d want to know the voice of your main character. You’d want to know the way they walk, the kinds of food they eat, how they comb or don’t comb their hair. They would need to be real. In way, your grief is a character: it has a rhythm and a voice. It is particular to you. If we’re going to be working with grief, let’s find out who s/he is.

The creative tool is called personification. What we’re really doing is giving grief, itself, a voice. When it has a voice, it can tell us things.

So: let’s think of this exercise as inviting your grief to introduce himself / herself to you.

an off-the-cuff example: Grief rocks, slumped in a corner, spent drink in her left hand, dirt smeared across her forehead. She hums and she cries; her hands flit against things I don’t see. As I come near, she looks up, startled but clear eyed:
“What do you want?” she asks, adjusting the straps of her dress.
She pats herself down gently. “What is it you most want? Maybe I have it. Maybe I have it somewhere….”

If your grief is a character who can come forward and speak, what kind of voice does s/he have? Don’t tell us about it, let him or her actually speak. Write in grief’s voice.

To get there, you might begin by taking just a few moments to quiet yourself. Close your eyes. Take a few breaths. As you feel yourself center, pick up your pen or set your hands over the keyboard. Take another breath, and on the exhale, imagine you ask your pain this question:

“Who are you?” or “Tell me who you are…”

If you see an image – a being, a creature, a person, describe what you see. Can you engage with it? If your grief is a character who can come forward and speak, what kind of voice does s/he have? Don’t tell us about it, let him or her actually speak. Write in grief’s voice.

Give it some time – allow the voice to find itself. If you feel stuck, be outlandish: make something up. Play with it. See where it goes.

From Megan Devine’s Refuge In Grief Write Your Grief Workshop

Day 3: I know where I live…

October 10, 2018

Day 3: I was living in the forest…. I know where I live… Here’s how I live in the desert…

It’s the same place — the same room. What’s changed? Its undeniably different. I’ve changed. Eyes open and I am numbingly awake but can’t see. Lights on. Suddenly, lights off. This is real loss. Locks are changed and I am chained in this lightless bleak, black basement room at night with a smashed lamp and shattered glass at my feet.

What was loss before was nothing. The loss of the car keys or that wadded up twenty dollar bill. Where did it go? The loss of the friend who stop texting or the love who stop calling, those losses were so insignificant. The death of our beloved cat, Night. She was suave, elegant and black, except for a patch of white on her chest. I found her on a frosty breathed morning, in the gutter; she was struck by a car and from the stiffness, had been there for some time. We buried her in the back yard. Theses were baby losses. Like someone taking a jangly, brightly colored toy out of my drool drenched hands. They were the dimming of a lamp in the room, the drawing of sinuous, velvety drapes.

On the loss of his wife, Jason Rosenthal writes, “ loss is loss is loss.” This struck a tuning fork of truth in me. Loosing car keys is loss. Unrequited love is loss. Sharing epitaphs and tears over your feline friend’s fresh mound of dirt is loss. She was a good cat. But the room is now suffocating. Akin to pottery in a gas kiln firing in reduction — some things are unpredictable and suck the oxygen right out of the room. Some losses not only turn off the switch but topple the lamp and take the lightbulb and smash it as they leave.


Day Three

Today’s prompt is about living in a changed world, finding ways to live in the changed world:

“I was living in a rainforest. I knew the trees and the frogs, the lush green life. With no warning, I got shoved into the desert. I know this is the desert. So take back your plastic palm trees and your cups of water; quit telling me it’s the same. I know better. I know where I live.”

Megan Devine, from my collected journals.

The desert has many teachings

In the desert, turn toward emptiness,
fleeing the self.

Stand alone, Ask no one’s help,
And your being will quiet, Free from the bondage of things.

Those who cling to the world, endeavor to free them;
those who are free, praise.

Care for the sick, But live alone,
Happy to drink from the waters of sorrow, To kindle Love’s fire
With the twigs of a simple life.

Thus you will live in the desert.

– Mechtild of Magdeburg, excerpted in Jane Hirshfield’s  Women In Praise of theSacred.

How do you live in a landscape so vastly changed? Write from any line in the above pieces, or start today’s writing with one of the following:

I was living in the forest….
I know where I live…

Here’s how I live in the desert…

Day 2: What does not show…

October 9, 2018

Day 2: “what you don’t know… ” or: “what does not show…”

We all carry sad stories inside curled up and crying  to seep out. I see it behind behind the blanketed dull and far off stares in eyes of strangers behind me waiting to order lattes. It’s a flat, matte light, lacking liveliness in their look as they gaze at nothing in particular, or maybe searching for hope or contact on their phones. So few of us are alive.

IMG_2996A child is alive. And then he is not.

What does it mean to be alive? It means to feel. To taste colors — smooth and fiery orange Brandy burning down the back of one’s throat. And to whif pine scented underarm deodorant mulched with mildewing crunchy copper leaves and tears of raindrops on the breeze. It’s sadness in October. And sunshine, anytime, anywhere, warming your face. It’s the heart-racing thrill of the drop and the jerk and the trill of a roller coaster. Being alive sparks a light in the eyes that flickers and dances and knows things and recognizes life.

When he stopped being alive, I stopped caring what others saw in my eyes. I do not dab makeup over my grief. I lost the will to care or conceal the purplish, puffy circles encasing my eyes. These swollen, grief-stricken blisters of vision are my new glasses and I wear them with love and dignity. With the honor and privledge that comes from walking hand-in-hand, with life at its best and silliest. I still feel. I feel so deeply and brutally it’s hard to stand up. And I don’t care what the others in the coffee line are thinking. They are not seeing me now any more than before from their eyes in a room with lights out, anyway.


Today’s prompt is about the public face we present versus what we know inside – the gulf between what we show and what is real:

“If you have ever lost a loved one, then you know exactly how it feels. And if you have not, then you cannot possibly imagine it.”
Lemony Snicket, The Bad Beginning

“I accepted all this counsel politely, with a glassy smile and a glaring sense of unreality. Many adults seemed to interpret this numbness as a positive sign; I remember particularly Mr. Beeman (an overly clipped Brit in a dumb tweed motoring cap, whom despite his solicitude I had come to hate, irrationally, as an agent of my mother’s death) complimenting me on my maturity and informing me that I seemed to be “coping awfully well.”

And maybe I was coping awfully well, I don’t know. Certainly I wasn’t howling aloud or punching my fist through windows or doing any of the things I imagined people might do who felt as I did. But sometimes, unexpectedly, grief pounded over me in waves that left me gasping; and when the waves washed back, I found myself looking out over a brackish wreck which was illumined in a light so lucid, so heartsick and empty, that I could hardly remember that the world had ever been anything but dead.”
Donna Tartt,  The Goldfinch

We often put on our “public” face when we go out, hiding private pain behind a tight mask of “I’m fine, thanks,” and hurried attempts to walk-on-past. There is so much we do not say. So much hidden behind a public numbness, or a polite and clipped response. But inside, there is so much more: howling and punching, pounded by grief. What is hidden below the public surface.

If you could tell people something, tell them what is true, what is true about grief and love and loss, something they do not know, or can’t know, what would it be? If you could address them, what would be said?

From Megan Devine’s Refuge In Grief Write Your Grief Workshop

Day 1: I am not the person I used to be…

October 8, 2018

Day 1: “I don’t have a name. I don’t know what to do. ”

From the outside in. That’s how I said Ewan would be working on us in this bigger puzzle called life at his memorial. I didn’t realize it was the FOIL method. I am sick to my stomach of acronyms and mnemonic devices. ALL, CART, RICE…. Spell it out, for gods sake. Give it words and a name, texture and real meaning. Today, I am angry that no one told me about advanced stages of leukemia. Maybe there aren’t any, but having cancer in the liver and kidneys should have been a clue that his disease had advanced. Advanced to what? To the next level in the game where everything get faster and harder to beat. It was back in January that spots were detected, (I’ll have to verify), but I was under the impression that disease was still extramedullar and treatable. This is the kind of information that should be spelled out — no acronyms, R/R ALL (relapsed/refractory acute lymphoblastic leukemia).

In cases where leukemia spreads to the liver and kidneys, someone should say, “we see 95% of those kids live less than 3-4 months more”, or whatever the data does say. I wish I would have known so I could have bitten into legs like a mad, rabid pitbull to get aggressive treatment made available to Ewan sooner. It wasn’t fair to keep him on the AALL1331 (not an acronyms and mnemonic devices, but rather the name of a study trial). He should have been offered the monoclonal immunotherapy drug blinatunamab. We know it works for adults. Or Inotuzamab. Or any mab….a la cart or combined. He should have been enrolled on PLAT-05 sooner (the name of an an acronym and trial – Pediatric Leukemia Adoptive Therapy). I am mad we didn’t know more and that he didn’t have more options sooner.

In that regard, I am still the same person — the one who wants more information. I am still curious but now to the point of pathos and agitation. In this case, the one case that mattered most, the cost of the lack of information was too high. Ewan’s life was too high of a price to pay for not having answers. I am deflated and destitute, void of any answers that matter.

“What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

This is why I am not the person that I used to be. I have no answers, no imagination and no beliefs. I used to be someone who believed anything in life was possible. If you imagined it and put in 10,000 hours it could be created or mastered. I feel like I put in 10,000 hours at Ewan’s bedside but no effort or energy or mastery could change the outcome. I am now a helpless, non-believer in the power of possibilities. Sure, I will tell you that we have to keep trying, we are all connect in some great, big puzzle that Ewan is now working on from the inside, but I don’t believe it.

What happens after we die is truly a black box of unknowns. I wander from person to person, from town to town, seeking out information of what happens next. I am waiting and hoping to unearth that buried treasure of answers. Maybe its hidden in the words of an existentialist. Is life absurd? Is it in the remains of a mummified remains of a child scarified to mountain gods and buried underground then encapsulated and preserved by ice? Juanita the Ice Maiden. Or will I find it in a painting from an artist who also died too young, around the turn of the last century? Nikolai Astrup. Should I turn to a religion that offers hope, peace and comfort? If you were righteous, your spirit will be “received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow” (though, this does not bring me much comfort since I am not righteous, which means I would not be received and reunite with Ewan in paradise. No one would dispute that an eight-year-old is righteous).

The only thing I know for certain is that nothing stays the same. I know loss is real. Death is real. Happiness is temporary. Nothing stays the same. And I don’t know what is for dinner. Whatever it is, there sure as godddamned hell will be no aluminum FOIL associated in the making of it and it might taste bitter because, today, my name is Angry.



Beautifully written. I feel the anguish of having no recourse, no ‘rewind’ button, no answers. Thank you for sharing.