I sat bedside with my mother, at my usual caregiver post. For two days, I had watched her body grow smaller. I traced my fingers around her lips where once she would have offered me a wide smile. My mother was dying—in the traditional sense. But I had been losing her long before the day of her death.
Dementia had wriggled in between us, more so than any political or religious debate. More so than any actions of my siblings or my father. More so than anything I could have done in the past to damage our relationship.
But throughout her decline, I used my words to hold on to whatever essence of my mother remained. And after she died, I used words again to open myself up the space I had closed off while I cared for her, while I knew I was losing her.
The act of writing does not exist solely for authors to create great works of fiction. The process of writing is like traveling through a portal, allowing us to see ourselves as our own work of art, to honor the creation that followed our greatest and smallest losses.
Come join us as we use our words to honor the lives and loss of those we love, and to open up to the life that follows.