https://www.facebook.com/329419540247079/

Love & Grief, Los Angeles, CA (2026)

06/23/2026

The crescent moon is thin in the upper right

and the sea is dark and loud below the cliff.
She is standing where the rock ends —

the waves crashing far down

on both sides of the cliff,

a single bird crossing the cloud

on the left,

and she stands at the exact edge

of solid ground,

facing the crescent's thin light

on the moving water,

the moon not full

but present, specific,

curved like a question.
I'll be your legacy — that choice —

is not made from comfort

but from this exact place:

the edge of solid ground,

the dark waves below,

the crescent giving its thin light

to the sea that does not quiet,

and deciding anyway

that the love will continue

past the point where standing here

is easy,

past the point where the crescent

is enough.
Enough or not.
The bird has crossed and gone.

The crescent keeps its position —

thin and specific

above all that dark water —

and she stands at the edge

having made the three promises

to herself,

not to the sky:

I love you,

I miss you,

I will carry you forward —
— Love & Grief

06/23/2026

The butterflies are scattered through a blue field

and the daisies are open at the bottom.
Several butterflies — each going

its own direction,

no formation, no consensus,

some higher and some lower,

and the daisies below them

are open the way daisies open

when nobody asked them to,

when the opening

is simply what they do

on a blue morning

in a blue field

that holds both

without asking why.
I keep their memory alive —

not for the audience,

not for the response,

but because the name

needs somewhere to go

the way the butterflies need air —

not to be seen,

not to be tracked,

but to move through something

that holds them,

and the blue field holds them

the way the act of speaking

holds a name

that otherwise has no place.
No other place.
The daisies do not perform.

The butterflies do not explain.

The memory I keep

does not justify itself either —

it is simply the love

doing the only thing

available to it now:

moving through the open air

of the blue field,

white petals turned upward,

the name still in the air,

held —
— Love & Grief

06/23/2026

She is sitting at the top of the stairs

and the sky is breaking open at the center.
Wide stone stairs behind her —

descending into grey-blue —

and she sits where they end

or where they begin,

her back to us,

facing the place where the clouds

have parted just enough

to let a different light through,

not bright, not warm,

just lighter than the rest,

a gap in the grey

the size of a decision.
I will always be his wife —

that is not a claim she is making

to anyone watching.

It is the posture itself:

sitting at the top

of the stairs that go both ways,

facing the opening in the clouds,

because a marriage is not

a thing that ends

when one person

stops being here —

it is a thing that exists

in the one who keeps sitting

at the top of the stairs.
Keeps sitting. Still his.
The clouds have not finished parting.

The light at the center

is still becoming itself.

The stairs go down

into everything that was

and she sits where they end,

not going down,

not going anywhere —

just here, at the threshold,

still his wife,

still watching the grey

open —
— Love & Grief

06/23/2026

He is walking into the mountains

carrying a lantern.
The only warm light in the whole image —

amber and small against the blue

of five layers of mountain ridge

disappearing into one another

in progressively lighter blues,

and he is walking toward

all of that pale distance

with the one warm thing

he is carrying,

and the lantern lights

the ground immediately before him

while everything ahead

stays blue.
I have never missed anyone as much —

that is the mountain landscape:

not one ridge but five,

each one further than the last,

each one a different shade

of the same blue distance,

and the missing is all of them —

the ridge you can see clearly

and the one behind it

and the one behind that —

all of it the same missing,

layered and continuous

and going further than you can see.
Further than seeing.
He walks with the lantern

because the lantern

is what he has —

not the full light of before,

not the blue-grey of after,

but the amber of the carrying:

the love that fits

in one hand

and lights exactly enough ground

to take

the next step —
— Love & Grief

06/23/2026

A hand is rising from the rocks

toward butterflies that are already going.
The hand is open — all five fingers,

palm facing forward,

the gesture of someone

reaching for something

that has already become

a different kind of present:

not gone, but changed

into the soft grey-white

of butterflies ascending

above a grey sea

above grey rocks

above a world that lost its color.
The day you died, the colors left —

that is the grey of this whole image,

the world rendered in the palette

of everything that was taken

with you when you went,

and what remains is the hand,

still up, still open,

and the butterflies above it

made of the same grey air

as everything else —

and yet moving,

and yet rising,

and yet there.
Still there. Still moving.
The hand does not close.

That is the detail

I keep returning to —

in a world that went grey,

the hand stayed open

the way love stays open

even when the colors

it was made for

have gone somewhere

past the reach of fingers —

just past —
— Love & Grief

06/23/2026

The pale pink rose is lying on its side

at the bottom of an almost-white page.
Not arranged — placed,

the way you set something down

when you have been holding it

and your arms need a moment,

not because you are letting go

but because the holding

requires a different shape sometimes,

a horizontal shape,

a resting shape,

stem extended, petals open,

the blush of it the only warmth

in all that white.
I grieve for what I lost

and I am grateful for what I had —

these are not opposites.

They are the same rose

from two directions:

one looks at the stem,

one looks at the bloom,

and both are looking

at the same pale pink,

the same lying-down beauty

that does not need to stand

to be completely

what it is.
What it is. Both.
I missed you today

and I will miss you tomorrow —

that is the horizontal of it,

the rose laid gently

across the whole length

of the page,

occupying both directions at once,

the yesterday and the tomorrow,

the grief and the gratitude

side by side —

the same rose,

the same quiet —
— Love & Grief

06/22/2026

The candle is burning and the wax is running down.

The rose is lying beside it with petals on the floor.
Both of them losing something —

the candle its height,

the rose its petals —

and both of them still

doing what they do:

the candle giving light,

the rose giving its red

to the dark around them,

and the warm circle the candle throws

reaches the rose's petals

and makes even the fallen ones

glow amber on the dark surface.
Each day a silent battle —

yes, because the candle knows

what surviving another day costs:

it costs something of itself,

the wax that drips and hardens

in a new shape on the holder,

changed by the burning

but still burning,

and the rose beside it

has lost petals to the same dark

and is still a rose,

still red, still open,

still exactly what it is.
Still burning. Still red.
That is the image

of surviving without you —

not the candle before it was lit,

not the rose before it opened,

but this: both of them

partway through,

both giving what they have,

the fallen petals glowing amber,

the wax hardened

in a new shape,

the flame still —
— Love & Grief

06/22/2026

The white bird is crossing a sky full of stars

and he is sitting on the dark rocks below.
Stars — not a few scattered ones

but a sky dense with them,

the whole upper frame crowded

with light that has been traveling

longer than any grief,

longer than any love,

and arriving anyway

at this particular night,

this particular man

on these particular rocks,

watching a white bird

cross through all of it.
For the rest of my life —

that is the length of the starfield,

not a metaphor but a measurement:

the rest of my life

is every star above him,

the ones he can count

and the ones behind those,

and the missing and the loving

are both in that field,

neither one ending before the other,

both of them as old

as the light that left

long before he was born.
Both. That old.
The bird keeps crossing.

The rocks are cold and real

beneath him.

The stars do not ask

whether he is ready

to keep looking up —

they simply go on being stars,

which is what love does,

what missing does,

what the rest of a life does:

keeps being —
— Love & Grief

06/22/2026

A white flower is growing through cracked earth

and the cracks run in every direction.
Not one crack — a whole map of them,

the earth split and dry

and completely inhospitable,

and the flower came up anyway

through the exact center of a crack,

green leaves spread wide,

white petals open,

as if it does not know

that this is difficult ground,

as if it did not consult

the earth before deciding

to be here.
Time only teaches carrying —

that is what the cracked earth says,

not that the crack closes,

not that the dry becomes soft,

but that something learns

to grow through the exact split

in the hardest ground,

to put its roots down

into what broke open,

to open its petals

in the same dry air

that holds the weight

of missing someone forever.
That weight. That air.
The flower does not argue

with the cracked earth.

It does not ask for better conditions.

It opened in this ground

the same way love opens

in the ground of grief —

not because the conditions

became easier

but because the opening

was always what it was going to do,

regardless of the ground

it found itself in —
— Love & Grief

06/20/2026

She is sitting at the top of the stairs

with the sky breaking open above her.
Not breaking in a violent way —

breaking the way a sky breaks

when the clouds part

just enough

to let the light through

at the center,

and the stairs below her

go down and down

into the grey-blue,

and she sits where they end

or where they begin,

depending on

which direction you are traveling.
I will always be his wife —

not past tense,

not the word that was,

but the word that is

and keeps being,

the way the light

keeps coming through

the center of those clouds

regardless of whether

the clouds agree,

regardless of whether

the day cooperates,

the light finding the gap

and arriving.
Still arriving.
The stairs go both ways —

they go down into what was

and they go up

into what the light is doing

at the center of the grey —

and she sits at the threshold

between the two directions,

still his wife,

still here,

the clouds still parting

above her

the same way love does —
— Love & Grief

Love & Grief

06/23/2026

06/23/2026

06/23/2026

06/23/2026

06/23/2026

06/23/2026

06/22/2026

06/22/2026

06/22/2026

06/20/2026

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share