A man has died, a thousand miles from where my children play, their laughter ringing through the house, their dancing shaking the walls. A man- a husband, a father, a friend- who lived his life in service to others, will not wake up tomorrow. His clothes will hang in a dark closet, until they can be faced by his widow. This death, like his life, will so quickly be forgotten, but tonight I cannot breathe through the sobs.
Sunday, January 25, 2026
Friday, January 23, 2026
ICE
An ice storm is coming,
they tell me,
and so I prepare:
water,
shelter,
blankets,
food.
I cover delicate flowers,
shielding them
from a brutal reality-
a cold
they have never
needed to know.
Ice is coming,
they tell me,
and so I prepare:
water,
shelter,
blankets,
food.
I wrap faucets
and pool equipment
in comforters,
I lug planters
inside the garage.
Ice is on the streets,
they tell me,
and so I prepare:
water,
shelter,
blankets,
food.
I hide my children,
covering their eyes
so they do not hear
the screams.
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