The End of a Circle

But I have decided, or at least I hope, that maybe the Hero Myth can have more than one script. Maybe the mere act of mothering—loving our children, trying to…

It was the beginning of a lifelong conversation about death with my children, one that requires vigilance of thought and word. I am my daughters’ guide through a forest of…

But beyond that, Russell, an anthropologist by training, imbued the story with themes that spoke directly to the swirling disquiet in my brain: the trepidation of embarking on an uncharted…

This was just one of three local chapters, and each likely only represented a fraction of people who had lost a child. The sad tribe of which we were now…

At the end of this month, on February 27, Luke would have turned eight years old. We celebrated just one birthday together. Seven—and counting—without him. When Luke turned one, we…

The clack of my heels striking the sidewalk echoes round and hollow through the frigid night. Whorls of steam curl from my nose, and the cold air leaves an alkaline…

These passing moments of grace, probably long forgotten by those who offered them, were like lamps illuminating a darkened footpath during my son’s short life.

We stop at a red light in Old Town, not two miles from home. Across the intersection, an old cemetery spreads languidly under the oaks, gravestones pushing up through the…

It is almost impossible to hold the two thoughts in my mind simultaneously. A new life is growing inside me even as my young son’s is slipping away.