red, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a

I call it cheap therapy. That gushing, near-religious, poured-from-the-body stress release that comes after writing my heart out for hours each day, delivers more balm to my soul than years of psychoanalysis.

There were eight of them. Eight family members and friends died in five short years. I was a neophyte in this death thing. This clamping-down-on-your-heart, ripping-a-hole-in-your-soul, death thing. It stunk. Badly. I was forty-three when my grandmother died. It floored me. The shock that it could really happen, that they could actually leave me, was overwhelming.

The guilt that had ridden hard on my back for the past twenty years came at me with a rush. I should have visited more. Called more. Written more. But the three baby daughters that we’d had in two years had consumed every ounce of our energy. We’d fallen into bed each night exhausted, and had awakened tired, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a s

eight of them. Eight family members and friends died in five short years. I was a neophyte in this death thing. This clamping-down-on-your-heart, ripping-a-hole-in-your-soul, death thing. It stunk. Badly. I was forty-three when my grandmother died. It floored me. The shock that it could really happen, that they could actually leave me, was overwhelming.

The guilt that had ridden hard on my back for the past twenty years came at me with a rush. I should have visited more. Called more. Written more. But the three baby daughters that we’d had in two years had consumed every ounce of our energy. We’d fallen into bed each night exhausted, and had awakened tired, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a

ee when my grandmother died. It floored me. The shock that it could really happen, that they could actually leave me, was overwhelming.

The guilt that had ridden hard on my back for the past twenty years came at me with a rush. I should have visited more. Called more. Written more. But the three baby daughters that we’d had in two years had consumed every ounce of our energy. We’d fallen into bed each night exhausted, and had awakened tired, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a

h a rush. I should have visited more. Called more. Written more. But the three baby daughters that we’d had in two years had consumed every ounce of our energy. We’d fallen into bed each night exhausted, and had awakened tired, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a

red, but happy, each morning. The thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemed insurmountable with three little ones in car seats and diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long, long time.

The next death came in a single, whooshing blow. My colleague at work, with whom I’d shared an office for eight wonderful years, died suddenly of a heart attack. Then my father-in-law, my grandfather, and so on. I struggled to make sense of it. People were disappearing rapidly.

And then it happened. My father was diagnosed with cancer in the same month that his mother died of Alzheimer’s Disease. We had a summer of hope. And then the disease hit again, and he was gone. Gone for good. Gone for real. In six short months, he was diagnosed, treated, and then he disappeared.

I was crushed. Completely shattered. This was bad. The worst.

I walked a lot. I trudged through the autumn woods, as the crispy leaves eddied around my feet. I heard his voice whispering in the breeze. The need to write was insistent. Urgent.

The pieces were gaudy and full of redolent poetry. The words painted my