On The Eve of The Terrible

Observation.

The ability for the body and spirit to heal is incredible. Still, after nine years, the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s death still resonates.

It’s like a bell.
A sudden wakefulness of the soul that recalls:
Oh, yes.

I know the sound of it.
I know that the tingling of nerves is
just the vibration of that sound
moving
from my soul to my skin.

Realization.

I struggled after her passing to write of her life or her death or my life through her death, passing through her in that moment just as I had at my birth.

No story ever made sense.
Every story was too fraught.
Too self-aware.

Stage plays of floating white coats like The Furies and
Baroque operatic gears, no matter how true they felt,
when written they seemed clunky and self-indulgent.

I began writing a novel ~ reimagining, actually, an old idea that had, at one time, been a completed, sprawling trilogy.

It has become a simple story of loss and love,

of sacrifice,

and of acceptance masquerading as forgiveness.

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