The trail

Things which remind me of my mom are everywhere. Like markers. Like the trail of light that emanates from a lighthouse. The smell of bread, a mashed potato sandwich, every feminist I meet…

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A long winter

Running on loop in my mind, is the fact that mom is gone. One more year has passed, it’s been now three years. The grief, though, seems fresh as yesterday, even more poignant. It doesn’t even require an anniversary, every Saturday looms large and insurmountable, a remembrance of that fateful day when she passed on.