On Loss and Mourning

Last night, after a couple of lengthy and very cathartic conversations with two incredibly different and yet equally strong and compelling women, I broke down and wept.

Earlier that evening, I was unpacking one of the waterproof bins into which I had stowed my valuables in anticipation of Irma— among them, autographed copies of various books given to me by authors over the years, my more extravagant and beautiful fountain pens, and my grandfather's ashes in a tiny stainless steel urn that I keep in my Craftbrary among my many books (where he would want to be, frankly). His tiny bone fragments rattled in the urn as I placed it back in its honored spot among my tomes.

There I was, hours later, weeping and composing the September 14th scrapbook haiku in the image above. Why? I don't know, but these conversations dredged up a deep longing for my grandfather and his patient and loving face. I wanted to hug him and cry on his shoulder in a way I hadn't wanted—needed, really—in almost a decade…