Memoir by Mark Brazaitis
On the Fourth of July, I convinced myself there was hope.
On the Fourth of July, I convinced myself there was hope.
I know we don't sound like you.
Perhaps the fact of her mother’s death was real to her, as real as it could get, whether or not she ever saw the body.
I wanted to pretend I was okay, that it was a happy day and I was there for a better reason.
Touch transcends the other senses, especially when the dying have lost their mental moorings.
I’m afraid of contributing to the stigma of mental illness by telling this story.
Off his meds, Daniel went to a bar, got spooked, and lost his temper.
Have you ever recoiled from your own newborn?
I can go out to a restaurant and no longer think the people at the next table are sending me messages in their sentences.
Part of me was always glad my mother found a way to cast off the shackles of her ordinary consciousness.