At My Funeral

When I die… Do not read Psalms 23. (When the priest asked what he should read at my father’s funeral, it was the only thing I remembered, but found no comfort from it.) I always think we should have played Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World. Dad would have liked that. So sing! Go... Continue Reading →

To Actually Be Present

A friend and I were talking over lunch last week about life and health, work and family. “Best to make the most of it,” I said. “You could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” she added with a smirk. We do smirk when we say that, don’t we? As it leaves our lips, it seems... Continue Reading →

Losing My Religion

“Dad's not there,” my sister responded adamantly, when I suggested we go back to the cemetery the night of his funeral. I don't know how, or if she'd found such clarity about it. I was four years older with five years of therapy under my belt, and I couldn't say much of anything with clarity.... Continue Reading →

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