Memoir by Diane G. Martin
My rights are less pertinent these days, and I’m learning restraint too late.
My rights are less pertinent these days, and I’m learning restraint too late.
Humor is a go-to defense in our family when things go wrong, but so much is wrong now.
When I awake with no desire to rush for a pen, it’s hard to see the value in what is happening.
I don’t know why I think of her now, standing at the cliff’s edge, nothing before me but water.
It’s as if I’m peeling back my own tissues, marbled with fat, to learn.
What if he holds tight to his belief that gender is more important than having his own child pray for his soul?
Thoughts about my death don’t hijack me anymore, although I can still capsize into the swamp of fear if I dwell too long on nonexistence.
The loss and near-loss of three people in my life in a short span of time were too great to put into words.
The police had taken Mike’s laptop and phone, so I had to find what I could without them.
I called my children by each other’s names, missed appointments, left my keys in the running car.