Tag: grief (Page 1 of 2)

Lives Intersected

1 May 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Gail Purdy

“Mom, it’s me!” I call out as I enter the apartment. Silence hangs in the air. “Mom?” I call out again before moving towards the bedroom and adjoining bathroom. I see the blood-stained towel first, then my 94-year-old mother lying motionless on the bathroom floor. One of the sliding glass shower doors is off its track and rests at an angle up against the shiny white tiles. Only the metal frame keeps it from falling further and landing on her. Is she dead? I hesitate for a second, which feels more like an eternity, before reaching for her wrist. Her eyes blink open at my touch.

An avalanche of emotion surges through my body, threatening to crush me. I want to scream and cry. Instead, I shove fear and anxiety into the shadows at the back of my mind.

“Do you feel any pain?” I ask.

“My back hurts . . . and my head.” She struggles to get the words out. Dried blood has formed a crust around the gash at her temple. A large purple and blue bruise is making its way down her cheek.

“What happened?” Should I try to move her or call the paramedics? I can’t decide.

This is the fourth fall in less than two months. I push the rising dread to the back of my mind, up against the fear and anxiety already exiled there. I reach for my phone and press three digits before sitting on the floor next to my mother. No words pass between us.

When the paramedics arrive, she complains of neck and back pain. Concerned about a possible fracture, they place a rigid collar around her neck, and strap her to an orange plastic stretcher, immobilizing the rest of her body. They move fast, wheeling her down the hallway and out the door to the waiting ambulance. “I’m going to the hospital too . . . I’ll be right behind you,” I shout after her. “You’ll be okay, Mom.” Are the assuring words for her or for me?

At this early hour there is plenty of space in the parking lot near the emergency entrance. Two streetlights cast a thin pattern of light across the gravel, but not enough to illuminate anything that might be hidden in the shadows. I turn off the car engine and sit motionless, except for my shaking hands, and watch the paramedics take my mother into the ER. I take a deep breath. My lungs resist the expansion, fearful the air supply will be cut off before they grasp what they need. I release several breaths before getting out of the car.

Antiseptic smells mingled with urine and fear assault me when the glass doors slide open. The familiar odours hang in the air threatening to suffocate like they always do when the doors close behind me. “Why isn’t anyone helping me?” My mother’s cries join the chorus of voices in the room.

“There are many people who need help. The doctor is very busy. You’re his next patient.” The lie falls easily from my lips. Heaviness sits in my stomach and the weight of it anchors me to the chair next to my mother.

“My neck hurts . . . and my back hurts,” she cries out. Her body is still immobilized.

A nurse moves between us and slips a little blue pill under my mother’s tongue before she turns and settles her gaze on me. Her eyes are soft with kindness as she places her hands on my shoulders. “Your mother has lived her life . . . you need to live yours.” Her touch is gentle, but her words split my heart open with an unexpected force. The weight of being a caregiver is slowly crushing me. I want to leave but I can’t move.

“Where’s the doctor? Why don’t they help me?” Mom’s voice now shrill.

My voice breaks through her mounting fear. “The doctor is busy. An ambulance just brought a man into the hospital. He’s been shot, and he might die if the doctor doesn’t help him first.”

I continue to evolve the fictional tale until I see the blue pill take effect. Mom’s eyes close, and I see her face soften. My eyes close too, releasing the tears I can no longer hold back.

Gail Purdy lives life on the west coast of British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in Four Tulips, rhizomag, Witcraft, Missing Pieces (a grief anthology from Quillkeepers Press), Last Syllable, The Bluebird Word, and the 2021 Amy Award Anthology. Long walks in the forest accompanied by her inner child nurture her creative soul.

Winter Grief

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Catherine Prentice

In the cold, bleak midwinter
Creeping mists descended
Holding her branches and twigs
In an ever tighter embrace
Restless life in twists and turns
Seized into waiting for rebirth
Could not lift spirits or comfort
Her beating heart, broken in place
The gnarled frame of love itself
So heavy, ready to give, to yield
There, touched by dark winds
Freezing her tears to her face

Catherine Prentice is an emerging writer who enjoys being an active member of The Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society in Calgary, Alberta. Originally from the UK, she moved to Canada with her family in 2007, where she trained, and works as a Registered Nurse. Catherine volunteers many hours with Calgary Wildlife rescue.

September 29

1 February 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Lorelei Feeny

for Dad

Today might be your last full day on earth
but know that I’ll think of you
every time I go to the Dollar Tree.

And whenever John Grisham writes a new book
I’ll put your name on the waiting list
even though you said he always tells the same story.

I still have your pocket avocados growing in my apartment,
windowsills lined with trinkets
given to me when I was a little girl.

and after
all these months
i can release
my grief
held hostage

From endings, new beginnings.

Lorelei Feeny was born and raised in Raleigh, North Carolina. She loves words and learning foreign languages. Her dad inspired her to write poetry. Read his poem The Garden published in The Bluebird Word in July 2023.

Going up Gorham

12 August 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Anne Rankin

Nature is an expression of intelligence and necessity.
PLATO

Here where mountain marries earth to the sea, I open like a prayer.
The climb begins with a sigh as I scour the trail for the wag of his tail.
Clouds form stepping stones into the horizon, and I wonder how
to find a way to tomorrow. Or if I even want to hear the silence that follows.
The spirit of the dog walks beside me;
his step keeps pace with my grief.

One year since. A cool morning then, just like today. A whisper
of early autumn air being polite, nothing more. One of those days you’re blind
to the darkness that’s coming. Gulls and ravens trade places
in the sky, but I’m resigned to the gray that lives between.
I’m in the kind of place where you can’t get there from here.
The way you sometimes need rain to move air.

A bird out of sight offers up its lone song, but all I can hear
is, Still gone, still gone. Far below, ocean keeps sending itself onto shore,
tending the earth’s wounds with waves. Above, the sun rises
over the trees, turning up the volume of the sky.
As the trail stretches skyward, I’m searching what’s near, seeking
what’s revealed in the rooms of the climb.

Autumn huckleberry bleeds into the surrounding hills,
but I’m tuned to the pitch of the path, the blazing red leaves
saying more than I can bear. My eye catches a common tern
sweeping the sea, and I hand myself from rock to rock,
finding solace in the scratch of shoe against granite. I struggle
to unlace the root-studded trail, only to find myself entwined instead.

On this mountain that hands land to sea, the breeze reminds me
of something worth knowing, and I breathe deep,
lungs grateful for all that salt air can relieve.
Ahead, a stand of scrub pine raises questions I can’t answer.
As views of Sand Beach keep turning my head, I’m wondering
what word the sea might offer for grace.

But further along the trail I spot a cairn
stacked in place by some fellow wanderer
who needed to assure me with something only stones can say:
You will find your way, even as the earth turns below your feet.
The spirit of the dog walks beside me;
his step keeps pace with my grief.

Anne Rankin‘s poems have appeared in The Healing Muse, The Poeming Pigeon, Hole in the Head Review, Passager, Scapegoat Review, Atlanta Review, Rattle (forthcoming), and elsewhere. Her poem “Small Primer on Loneliness” received Honorable Mention at the Belfast Poetry Festival 2021.

Keeping Diana Alive

1 July 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Jennifer Pinto

The plant I carried was so bulky and cumbersome that when I hugged it against my chest and carried it to my car, I could barely see where I was going. I had to peek through the small spaces between glossy, dark green, oval shaped leaves that seemed to emerge directly from the soil. The brown stucco pot was heavy and I struggled not to drop it while slipping and sliding across the icy funeral home parking lot. I was desperate for a reminder of my dad, something that might bring me peace after his sisyphean battle with liver cancer and my increasingly contentious relationship with my step mother.

At my dad’s funeral, this solitary plant was displayed atop a pedestal next to his casket. A peace lily in all her glory, standing sentry. There were also a few flower arrangements, but most people, at the request of my step mother, slipped cash in the donation box next to the entrance to help pay for the funeral costs instead. At the end of the service when everyone was lining up to head over to the cemetery, I snuck back into the funeral home and stole that plant. I knew it was the only possession I would ever have of my dad’s and, in my twisted logic, that plant belonged to him.

Back home, I looked for the perfect spot for the plant. I googled Peace Lilies and found that they adore bright sunlight. In fact the article said, “the more light your plant gets, the happier it will be, the faster it will grow and the more it will bloom.” It was obvious that sunlight was the key to keeping this plant alive. In the years leading up to my dad’s death, between calls with the oncologist and trips to the Cleveland Clinic, I hadn’t felt like enjoying the sun. My blinds remained shut most days. But for the sake of the plant, I let the light in. I placed the pot directly in front of the patio door and named her Diana.

If my dad were a plant he would have been a succulent, the kind you could leave in the corner windowsill for weeks at a time without a thought or a drop of water. He wouldn’t have minded. That’s how he was, easy to please and uncomplicated. Despite being neglected, he would continue to grow, his roots digging deep for water and his stem quietly reaching for the sun. He was kind to a fault and expected as little from others as possible, a people pleaser who stayed out of the limelight. I was the one who insisted that dad get the liver transplant, encouraged him to get radiation and then chemotherapy. I fought with my step mother over hospice placement, stubbornly refusing to give up.

It only took me a few days to realize Diana was dramatic if nothing else. She demanded water by collapsing in on herself. Her broad emerald leaves wilting down and falling over like a diva fake- fainting on a velvet settee. After her thirst had been slaked she popped back up, white spaths held high as if nothing had happened at all. Only to repeat her theatrical performance a few days later. Unlike my dad, she wasn’t afraid to demand what she needed. She wasn’t polite or demure; she had no qualms about turning her leaves brown to show her disapproval.

Following my dad’s death, I was paralyzed by grief. But as the weeks went by, I found myself distracted by Diana. I watched her carefully, moved her from window to window to get the correct amount of sunlight, stuck my finger deep into her soil to make sure it was moist and wiped the dust off her leaves with a damp cloth. I talked to her and laughed at her melodramatic ways. She may not have brought me peace in the way I had imagined but at least I know what it takes to keep her alive.

Jennifer Pinto writes creative nonfiction. She lives in Cincinnati with her husband and a Goldendoodle pup named Josie. She enjoys making pottery, cooking Indian food and drinking coffee at all hours of the day. Her work has been published in Sundog Lit, Halfway Down the Stairs and The Bookends Review.

The Birdhouse

1 June 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

for the sparrows

In retirement,
my partner built a birdhouse from cedar
to withstand the New England winters.
Twelve inches high,
four by four at the base,
hinged roof for cleaning.
The entrance hole measured 1¼ inches
seven inches above the floor—
no perch for crows or magpies
to devour eggs or hatchlings.

He hung the birdhouse on a giant oak
facing east from prevailing winds
to be bathed in sun on brisk mornings,
shaded in the afternoons.
The wood was left unpainted to blend
into the October landscape.
He had thought of everything
in the way a man researches,
makes detailed lists, follows specifications.

The wait for a pair of sparrows began.

Today I lift the roof
and clean out an abandoned nest
for new mates to move in.
My partner has been dead
more than a year now.
He never saw the first sparrows
or watched their young fly free—
the one thing he didn’t plan for.
The one thing we never saw coming.

I close the top
and search the empty sky.
New sparrows will arrive in due time,
become part of my love story.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who now has the time to hike in the Connecticut woods with her three dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include Comstock, Awakenings, Evening Street and Gyroscope Reviews, Slab, and Glimpse, among others. She won the 2024 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.

Bookmark

1 June 2024 / Editor

Poetry by John Hoyte

I grabbed it from the bookcase, to read before bed.
The Problem of Pain, a two shillings and sixpence
Fontana paperback, from my college days.
It tackles the question, If there is a loving God,
why does He permit pain?
I chose it to see if C.S. Lewis’s writing
still resonated for me.
A bookmark fell out.
The Grand Hotel, Taipei, Taiwan.
Pain came surging back, engulfing me
in sorrow, though bitterness had gone.

The year my wife died had been a year of devastation.
To get away, Lisa, my daughter, and I flew
to Taiwan on a business trip.
We stayed at The Grand Hotel, and felt like royalty.
External opulence, internal grief.
I look back over thirty years.
My daughter’s daughters are in college
and I have just turned ninety-one.

I went to sleep in gratitude, thinking of my daughter
who has stood by me with love, grace and courage.

John Hoyte is a retired engineer, artist, and explorer.

the Irish goodbye

8 July 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Brooks

I was distracted,
looking this way and that
enjoying cocktails,
laughter & the company
of a stranger just for a
moment

one moment

I knew you were there,
always, so I took
another sip, laughed another
laugh and turned my back
on you
to dance

just for one moment

you had perfected it
though,
the Irish goodbye
and
I never saw it coming

sometimes, I still think
you will come walking back through the front door
and my heart
beats & a smile turns up

just for a moment

hello —
did you forget your cap?

I say to no one

Christine Brooks holds her M.F.A. from Bay Path University in Creative Nonfiction. She has two books of poetry available, The Cigar Box Poems and beyond the paneling. Her next two, inside the pale and the hook-switch goodbye, will be released in 2023.

The Hip

6 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Dawn L. C. Miller

Her ashes came to her grown daughters in a lovely box,
mahogany and rosewood,
accompanied by another box, containing
what had sustained her past the pain,
preserved her from disability,
entitled her to a parking permit.
It was her hip. Titanium and some ceramic.

Clarise and Susanne stared at it gleaming on the red velvet.
“It’s her hip,” murmured Clarise.
“Of course it is,” stated Susanne. “I can see that.”
“What are we supposed to do with it?” continued Clarise.
“Well, we can’t scatter it with her ashes. Someone might find it.”
They stared some more.
Together they debated all evening, agreeing on nothing.

The next morning it gleamed at them from the mantle.
Without looking at it,
in between angry silences,
and tears,
they talked.

The memories of places their mother had never been
floated into the morning light.
The seashore, when she stayed behind to take care of things at home.
The mountains she did not go with them to see:
no need to pay extra fare.
All the beauty and the music of far cities,
too expensive.
“Let’s take her there now!” they both said together.

And the journeys began.
Perched on a gunnel, their mother’s hip resounded with sea sounds.
Lost in the luggage for three days in Kenya,
Mother was found at last by a drug sniffing dog.
She rolled off into the snow at an Austrian ski resort,
but sat gleaming on a chair in the best restaurant in Paris
as her daughters laughed and toasted and remembered.

Dawn L. C. Miller has been writing poetry since childhood. Her poems have been published in Poetic Hours and Pegasus Review. She enjoys living on Maryland’s Eastern Shore with her two cats and orchids.

landscape photography of sunflower field during sunset — Photo by Peter de Vink on Pexels.com

Consider the Dawn

14 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Jayne Martin

For Ellie

A raspberry wave splashing
Onto a blank canvas of possibility
Sunflowers turn their faces to the east
Eager to sip from the rising sun
Knowing nothing of the indigo of sorrow
That weighs upon my heart
Taken much too soon
Your loss still a fresh wound festering
regret for all I could have done
better
I drown in the silence
Force myself to rise and step into the day
It is a gift, this life
Each moment
As fleeting as the flight of fireflies
I will be like the sunflowers
My face to sun following its journey
across a serene sky
One breath in, one out. Repeat
Trusting in the passage of time to heal
Bowing my face to the west where
The sun drops into tomorrow
As I await
The dawn of another day to come

Jayne Martin is the author of “Tender Cuts,” a collection of microfiction and “The Daddy Chronicles-Memoir of a Fatherless Daughter.” She lives in California, but dreams of living in Paris. Visit her at www.jaynemartin-writer.com, Twitter: @Jayne_Martin, Instagram: jayne.martin.writer, TikTok: jaynemartin05