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The last movie we saw with you has been nominated for an award — / you’re not here to say I told you so.
By Sally CharetteMarch 2016Though we aren’t blasé about death, we are accustomed to it. We know it will happen. When a person is hospitalized, it means his or her condition could turn serious, fast. A simple case of pneumonia could result in a whole-body infection that spirals and becomes fatal. A patient receiving a new hip could develop a blood clot that clogs his lungs. A heart-failure patient could suffer an arrhythmia. But hospital deaths are rarely as terrible as John’s.
By JoDean NicoletteJanuary 2016The rush of wings produced a low sandpaper hum that was both intimidating and exhilarating. The thrum of a colony of bees is a sound that stays in your blood. It’s addicting. Spend time with bees, and you may develop a second heartbeat, an unmistakable constant pulse.
By Rose WhitmoreDecember 2015I had my miseries, not hers; she had hers, not mine. The end of hers would be the coming-of-age of mine. We were setting out on different roads. This cold truth, this terrible traffic regulation (“You, Madam, to the right — you, Sir, to the left”) is just the beginning of the separation which is death itself.
By C.S. LewisOctober 2015Because it’s embarrassing how many poems you’ve written / about killing yourself.
By Chris BurskOctober 2015I met Grief at your funeral. He was wearing a T-shirt, / jeans, and flip-flops in January, smoking a joint / in the corner; he put it out just as the funeral / director rushed over.
By Jennifer ForemanOctober 2015Three months after his aging daughter Rhonda gave him a one-year-old poodle-Lab-golden-retriever mix to keep as a pet, Felder came to believe that the dog — who looked at him mournfully whenever he went to the bathroom and waited for him by the door, as still as a statue, until he came out — was in fact none other than the reincarnation of his sister, Esther, may her name be a blessing.
By Jennifer Anne MosesOctober 2015The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them. How much sorrow can I hold? That’s how much gratitude I can give.
By Tim McKeeOctober 2015At every deathbed and hospital room, I didn’t see sane dying. I saw sedated dying, depressed dying, isolated dying, utterly disembodied dying. Sane dying would require a childhood steeped in death’s presence, an adulthood employed in its service, and an elderhood testifying to its necessity. Sane dying is a village-making event: lots of people with plenty to do, the whole production endorsing life.
By Erik HoffnerAugust 2015Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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