My shrine to my father is on a kitchen counter, near to where I keep my purse.   Its center is a 8.5″ x 11″ excellent black-and-white portrait  of my father in a narrow, gilded, and embossed frame. He is wearing a suit; the photo was taken in 1973.  in it, he is about 48;.. read more →

Making one-sided peace.

My dad got to make his peace with me on the last day we spent together on this earth, February 7, 2016, in a nursing home. He made it unmistakably clear, by deed and word, that he loved me and was happy for me and thought I was beautiful and wonderful. Three times, he reached.. read more →

A lift with sad baggage

I drove through the mall on a blustery, cold, gray day, with a driving rain splattering on my windshield. Traffic through the mall road was slow and I had time to look around me. I noticed a woman wearing a red coat, moving slowly and struggling to carry an overloaded shopping bag in each hand… read more →

Too many feelings.

For all of my life I never felt loved by my father; he was always away working and almost always preoccupied with important things at home. As I small child, I have no memories of playing with him where I didn’t end up in tears. He would tell me the words of love, but there.. read more →


Linda J. Smith,  an educated, passionate, and wonderful colleague,  told me that grief is like labor. only in the opposite direction. In labor, the work has its own power and rhythm; it waits for no one. The feelings gradually increase in intensity and become all-consuming. Then, BANG! The baby arrives. In grief, the work has its.. read more →

My turn is next.

When I was little, two generations of my family were alive, I was the third.  I had 4 grandparents, and 2 parents; there were lots of grand-aunts and grand-uncles, and first and second cousins.  My dad’s parents lived on the opposite coast so I rarely saw them; my mother’s parents lived a drive away so they.. read more →