Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
The first month you count the days. The second month you count the weeks.
The first year after someone dies is a minefield of ordinary things. Their coffee mug. Their side of the bed.
I don't pray the way I was taught—on my knees, hands folded, words memorized like a password to heaven.
The eulogy is the hardest poem: you must condense a life into minutes, make a room full of crying people laugh at least once.
Healing is not a straight line. It is a dog path through tall grass, a pocket full of wrong turns,
My father's chair still faces the window where he watched the street as if expecting a delivery
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