Thank you. My mom's dementia. The bag lady (again). Roxie. 400 cookies. Inherited family trauma. Internal Family Systems. A name in stone. Thank you for being here, for all of it. My fingers...

When I walk Roxie, if I am feeling lonely (it happens), I—silently—remind myself of all my relations, and I greet them. “Hello, tree! We are relations!” To the gray river behind the trees, “Hello,...

Even though grief is a cold ocean and relief a warm sigh, they can both be in my chest at the same time. I can grieve what my mother is losing, what we are losing, while I am glad to be home,...

Last Sunday I figured you'd figure I was taking a day off. Today, I didn't even realize it was Sunday until somewhere on I-70 in western Pennsylvania. This is what happens when I visit my mom. I...

What if the fear of becoming a bag lady has nothing to do with bag ladies but is something I've conjured to keep myself working hard, still, still, still, cycling back to a need to prove myself...

She shows up dirty, raggedy. Comes close, smells a foul taste, whispers in both my ears at once. “You don’t have enough. You’re going to run out.” Her words land as a cold stone in my stomach. I...