Editor’s Note: this is a poem by Bette Korman, artist, author, poet, museum director, and spiritual entrepreneur. Although it does not directly reference grieving for loved one, it will resonate for widows and widowers of a certain age. “ Old Age”………. patterns that fall apart and can’t be sewn back together because the fabric has
How Will I Breathe? Where did he go, this brother of mine? Strong with his opinions, his voice, his presence. In his place, a mere shadow, not even a good likeness. And yet, when I look deeply into weary eyes, I see the one who shared my life for all my life.
by Chanel Brenner It falls from my binder, cherry crayon streaks ripen in sun, LOVE RILEY— a valentine from my son, three weeks before he died, cutout paper once a tree, before its felling and reduction to pulp. I pick up the heart, hold it like a seed I’ll save to
by Chanel Brenner Stretching my legs after a walk down our old street, my dead son’s face came to me, the scar below his left eyebrow, the window of his missing two front teeth so clear, I had to sit for a minute, on someone else’s porch. You’d think we’d
by Chanel Brenner Riley is dead, and now, I make eggs for his brother, like I used to do for him. As I boil the water, I remember how Riley loved to shift them in the glass bowl while they cooled, watching light flicker the water, as if he beheld a world,
