Grief Doesn't Have A Plot. It Isn't

We Were A Family That Made Our Halloween Costumes. Or, More Accurately, My Mother Made Them. She Took No Suggestions Or Advice. Halloween Costumes Were Her Territory. She Was The Brain Behind My Brothers Winning Girl Costume, Stuffing Her Own Bra With Newspapers For Him To Wear Under A Cashmere Sweater And Smearing Red Lipstick On His Lips.

When I Was Seven Years Old, I Fell In Love With A Series Published By Bobbs-merrill Called 'the Childhood Of Famous Americans.' In It, Historical Figures Like Clara Barton, Nancy Hanks, Elias Howe, Patrick Henry, And Dozens More Came To Life For Me As Children.

No One Can Write Like Cheryl Strayed.

The Only Language She Could Speak Was Grief. How Could He Not Know That? Instead, She Said, "i Love You." She Did. She Loved Him. But Even That Didn't Feel Like Anything Anymore.

I Was A Daughterless Mother. I Had Nowhere To Put The Things A Mother Places On Her Daughter. The Nail Polish I Used To Paint Our Toenails Hardened. Our Favorite Videos Gathered Dust. Her Small Apron Was In A Box In The Attic. Her Shoes - The Sparkly Ones, The Leopard Rain Boots, The Ballet Slippers - Stood In A Corner.