I want to wake up with your handprint on my hip and your perfume in my hair. I want to be haunted by your touch. Every breath of wind could be an unexpected caress: phantom kisses against my skin.


I don’t know how to parent through this.
Like, there is still homework.
And dinner.


Sometimes, we forget our words. Sometimes, we don’t remember how to mourn. Silence stands between us, a leviathan of unspoken grief. We linger in its shadow, waiting for the delicate whisper of rain.

Finders keepers

This garden promises solitude. The water glitters with koi, crimson sparks stolen from the sunset. Down from the house drifts a faint melody, some etude or nocturne. Soon there will be dancing. His hand will press against your back; his fingers will pluck the lily from your hair.

Little Pink Riding Hood

It’s raining outside- that heavy Chicago late-summer rain that ruins shirts and hairdos, knocks down branches and floods gutters and sewers. Continue reading