She lounges in a Bucharest park, perhaps 1975.
The Chase credit card company representative was very, very sorry about my mother's death.
She wanted me to know that mom had been "with Chase" for five whole years.
She wanted me to know that Chase, the corporate entity, sincerely mourned "the passing of their family member."
I hung up the phone and stared at the sidewalk. The metal taste of anger corroded my tongue.
There is nothing to say. Nothing I can say to untangle the knots of losing your mother.
I try to read or write and vowels swim like pufferfish in a 50 gallon tank.
I search for analogies and comparisons... I am hoarse and grief is like a pickaxe dancing inside my blood. Grief is like a rope-less boat bobbing in a harbor. Grief is a color we become when unmoored. When nothing holds us in place anymore.
But the clouds whiff past without drizzling a single story.
