Thursday, November 19, 2020


 Gentle reader.

I know what you are thinking.

It's been a while.

And it has, I know it has. Too long. But you see, things changed. I am no longer in paradise. At least not the traditional sort of paradise. This one has falling leaves and fresh apple cider donuts. Roaring wood stoves candles glowing in windows. Explosions of daffodils and that smell of warm dirt. Lobster rolls and lazy days lying on a dock dangling a strict in the water with a piece of chicken attached, hoping to catch a crab for your bucket. And sub zero temperatures followed by mud season.

Yes, I have relocated. And for the past three years I have been in New England, definitely not writing.

You noticed?

I'm sorry. It was rude of me to ghost you like that. But I ran out of words, and I needed to do some things that were hard, and some things that were sad, and some things that were humbling. And now I'm back, baby.

But why now, you ask? Why today? What would prompt my return?


Or to be clear, two hundred and fifty days.

Two hundred and fifty days have passed since March 13th, 2020. That was the last day before....... everything.

My last night at work.

My last weekend separated from my husband (more on that later) (promise).

My kids' last day of "normal" school.

My last dollar, spent at Walmart, buying cold medicine and kleenex and whatever else had been suggested in some article I read somewhere about what to buy to prepare for Covid-19.

And while things in my home were feeling pretty dire, I had it good. Because it has also been two hundred and fifty days since Breonna Taylor was killed in her home. In the hallway outside her bedroom. By a police officer who had just broken down her door. And whether he knocked first is irrelevant.

I survived March 13th 2020, and every day since. And I would be remiss if I didn't use my voice to speak up and speak out. Breonna should be here too. I never made the connection between her death, and everything in the whole country falling apart at the fucking seams like it did.

For two hundred and fifty days, I have been in a state of suspended animation. Scared to make any big move. Or little one. But not anymore. This is me pulling the plug, and letting it out. The anger, the sadness, the hopelessness and fear, the frustration and also the celebration. 

I. Am. Still. Here.

(So are you. I am glad for that.)