sporklet 15

Editor’s Note:

My mom died in late July. She
was 60. The loss of her
permeates my life. Some days I’m
made of bone. Some days I’m
made of water. Some days I’ve
got no skin and tears pour
from my eyes over my hands
as I rinse jars for jam.
Loss is inextricable from the choices
I’ve made here and elsewhere. It’s
part of a broader pain spilling
out of the post office onto
the pavement. The leaves burn, disintegrate
into air. We’re all aching from

the outside in, from the pressure.