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“When my mom died, it felt like everyone I knew had a story about her. Every story was a different flavor of grief, a memory that would just pour out of people to absolve a wound far beneath the skin. To make sense of something that couldn't make sense. As they talked, I would wonder if it was for me or for them, the stories slowly becoming empty words. Empty words passing over lips in an attempt to reconcile a loss that couldn't be reconciled.” — Rachael Lippincott
When my mom died, it felt like everyone I knew had a story about her. Every story was a different flavor of grief, a memory that would just pour out of people to absolve a wound far beneath the skin. To make sense of something that couldn't make sense. As they talked, I would wonder if it was for me or for them, the stories slowly becoming empty words. Empty words passing over lips in an attempt to reconcile a loss that couldn't be reconciled.