conversations I lost, all of the goodbyes and hellos, the cookouts and dinner celebrations, all of the two-meat Sundays.
On October 11, 2011, my father walked into his barn to get some tools to fix Neta’s sink. He did not walk back out.
August 31 is the 13th Anniversary of my mother’s death. I reflect here: “But each time someone I love dies, the grief becomes new again. The impact of it is compounded and expanded. It’s as if I’m grieving all of their deaths at once.”