Loss Is So Paradoxical: It

Grief Is At Once A Public And A Private Experience. One's Inner, Inexpressible Disruption Cannot Be Fully Realized In One's Public Persona.

Suddenly It Was Fall, The Season Of Death, The Anniversary Of Things-going-to-hell.

Much Of Hamlet Is About The Precise Kind Of Slippage The Mourner Experiences: The Difference Between Being And Seeming, The Uncertainty About How The Inner Translates Into The Outer, The Sense That One Is Expected To Perform Grief Palatably. (if You Don’t Seem Sad, People Worry; But If You Are Grief-stricken, People Flinch Away From Your Pain.)

Writing Has Always Been The Primary Way I Make Sense Of The World.

My Mother Never Liked Mother's Day. She Thought It Was A Fake Holiday Dreamed Up By Hallmark To Commodify Deep Sentiments That Couldn't Be Expressed With A Card.