She has trouble remembering her husband's face. It's only been a week since he died. She can't believe it, just as she can't believe that the only thing she remembers about Peter is his voice. It's as if all that ever existed was his voice. Peter must be angry,
- Maria, don't ever forget me, he said minutes before he died. And it was only when she wrote these words that Maria realized that the last thing she heard was his voice. And that's what will remain forever. Never forget me.
At the end of each long school day, tired from sports and mathematics and bullies who mash her sandwiches into the playground, the sound of Dad’s car tyres scrunching into the driveway comforts her.
After being enveloped in his goodnight embrace, she drifts off when the scratch of his day’s stubble on her soft brow sheds the worries of her youth away. His calming whispers tip her into nightly dreams.
But when other footsteps crunch and ring the doorbell instead, grief wakes her up and never lets her rest again.
I always thought a bereaved person would lose her appetite. Instead, after a few days, I longed to eat all of your favorite foods. I went to the deli to order turkey and Swiss on a roll, as if consuming it would somehow bring you back. I recreated the meatloaf you used to make. I bought a canned imitation of the cocktail you served me the day we met. My first words to you were, “I’ll have a margarita on the rocks, no salt, please.” My last: “See you soon.”
48 hrs. without power. Maybe another 48. We survived the ice storm. This is a piece of cake!
I'm late today but here it is.
90 mg of grief
“The generator is not working,” Curtis intoned sadly.
“What are we going to do about…,” Kim asked, nodding towards the freezer. She had some concerns.
“I know,” replied Curis, “Bad timing. The good news is it will take a few days for things to defrost. We will have to cover everything in blankets. They will help keep everthing frozen.
Kim looked sceptical. “Good grief. We will need to move up our plans.“
“Finding the perfect place to dump a frozen body will take come planning.”
The saddest memories of my life carry no more emotional weight than does the memory of fastening my shoelaces this morning. One of the benefits of having aphantastia and zero memory. Happiness, grief, sadness, joy…all those memories are the same. A tiny man whispering in the other room.
I do not (thank goodness), but I've read a lot about it (and I'm ageing fast). I think that sentence "A tiny man whispering in ther other room" just really got to me. A powerful piece.
I was shopping for new curtains when I felt her loss.
9 weeks, too early to know, but somehow I did.
Third round of daily injections, twice weekly blood tests, invasive ultrasounds and the constant reminder by a less than subtle health “professional” that I was not “normal”.
its the helplessness and having to watch your partner go through the hell of it - that's really tough. So many people I know suffered through it, but most of them got a child or two in the end, it seems, including my sister and my niece and nephew to prove it. so glad to see you have your boys.
I can feel the weight in each line—how the smallest moment, like shopping for curtains, can split open the space we try so hard to hold together. That sudden awareness, not yet confirmed yet undeniably known—those are the kinds of truths the body carries even when no one else has spoken them aloud.
The layering of grief—grieving not only a child but your own body, your dignity, your sense of being worthy, your imagined future—that kind of grief doesn’t come in waves, it is the tide. Constant. Pulling everything under.
What struck me most was how quietly yet powerfully you named the many losses hidden inside just one. That line—I grieved for the future—landed hard. Because sometimes, the most painful thing isn’t what was, but what never will be.
If you ever feel like expanding this piece or sitting with someone who sees the layers behind it, I’d be honored to read more.
thank you - it's the one subject that wrecks me every time. I have just ruined today's perfectly applied mascara - at my desk - of all places...
Hard fought, and won, I now have 2 "strapping young lads" as my father calls them. My heart on legs. I nearly lost both, one at 2 days old. The second at birth, and then the danger to survive was me..
I am not sure I could expand. Snippets let out occasionally - are just too heavy.
t’s a crime to ruin mascara for a story—and yet, to ruin it for remembering what was, and the unlived life tied to it, and to process that reality through snippets and fragments—that is something.
I can feel the angst, the despair in your words—and also the hope, the elation that it turned out differently. Twice. And now there’s a future to build on.
Lange, Dorothea, photographer. Along the highway near Bakersfield, California. Dust bowl refugees. Nov. Photograph. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/2017759225/>.
Paul leaned on the shovel, gazing out across the cloudy sky. He hoped it would rain soon so that his tears could be explained away, but he was certain the clouds were taunting. Loss upon loss this last year. The crops withered before they took root, which meant he would lose the land this time. His wife was nursing their fourth child, but the lack of food meant her milk supply wouldn't last. The other three were always hungry. He needed a new dream; this one was dead. Maybe California.
They brought them to the funeral. Seemed everyone was packing, carrying, loaded, strapped, decked out, armed to the teeth, whatever. I saw some on hips, in jacket pockets, on the belt, back of the pants, vest pockets, the side of a sock even. Seemed everybody had at least one, and nobody was shy about it. Happens when it’s a kid. Shit hits harder. I get it. It does funny things to people — grief — different things. Some want the anger, some the sadness, others, numbness. I never seen so many flasks.
A heartbreaker today, Miguel. Here's mine. I apologize in advance, but it's a major overdose. I couldn't figure out how to tell the story in fewer words...
----------------
Father Joe had promised to check in on Stephen after mother's death, but when I saw my brother excitedly waving a copy of Kübler Ross's book, I realized that Father had ignored my advice. Stephen doesn't process emotions like most of us.
"Look, Mary, I followed all the steps in this stupid book," he explained as he led me to the living room, where Mom's urn sat on the coffee table. "Denial is just stupid, well, because Mother's dead and all burnt up and in that jar. I tried anger: I even looked up a bunch of naughty words to yell, but it didn't help. Bargaining? Well, that's just stupid, too, what could I promise to do that would bring Mother back? Nothing. And I have no idea why Father Joe would want me to be depressed." Stephen looked frustrated.
"So that just leaves acceptance, then," I said, trying to keep my tears at bay.
"Yeah, but Father Joe says I need to grieve PROPERLY. According to these instructions, I'm not supposed to skip straight to acceptance." Stephen liked checklists. He wanted to do everything the "right" way, the way "everybody else" does things, but didn't realize that most people don't need a checklist to feel emotion.
I decided it would be best to keep him busy. "So where do Mom's ashes belong? Surely not here on the coffee table." Stephen was most comfortable when everything was just so. I knew that he would have a place set up for our mother.
“No, of course not, Mary,” he replied, carefully picking up the urn. “Come, I'll show you where I keep her.”
He led me out to the garden, to a new area, surrounded by a meticulously placed border of granite blocks. We followed a flagstone path through a lovely flower bed, filled with all of Mom’s favorites, to a tiny mausoleum, built up of more granite blocks. Stephen gently placed Mom’s urn into a niche deep inside the structure. My heart broke when I realized that Stephen had created this beautiful space for our mother, all alone, with his own hands.
"Father Joe says I need to grieve. I tried, but I don't know how. What can I do?"
My tears were flowing freely by now. "Nothing, Stephen. You're doing just fine. We don't all grieve the same way."
As I held my brother in a stiff, rare hug, I realized that it would be okay. I could grieve enough for both of us.
yours was so so perfect Jeannine. Compassionate and real and meaningful, and I just feel a bit stupid that amongst all of this personal pain that people have chosen to share, I chose now, this moment, to write about my stupid annoying cat.
Thank you, Nick, but it isn't REAL real. It's all made up. And don't forget about writing about your cat. Loss is where you love. Plus cats are people, too, even the stupid, annoying ones. 🐱
It felt real to me, too, but Stephen and Mary are figments of my imagination. I've never met my Mom's cat, whevever I visit, she hides in the laundry chute (the cat, not my mother!). She only blesses certain people with her presence: Mom, one of my brothers (but not the other three), and my eldest son. She's a very picky kitty...
I didn’t feel like I was reading a story—I felt like I was standing in that garden with you, watching Stephen gently place the urn into a space shaped not just by granite, but by love, precision, and the only language of grief he knew how to speak.
The tenderness here lives in the small details. The checklist. The curse words he had to look up. The way he built a home for your mother’s ashes, as if grief could be made bearable through order. Through doing. Through care. And in a way, maybe it can.
What moved me most was how gently you let him be himself. No fixing. No pushing. Just presence. That moment of holding him, even stiffly, felt like a soft landing—one that maybe he didn’t even know he needed.
You didn’t overdose. You honored him. And in doing so, you gave grief a different shape—one that includes love, acceptance, and quiet devotion. I'm really grateful you shared this.
Thank you. This story is pure imagination, though. My real life mother is alive and well. But I do sometimes get the feeling that I'm traveling an alien landscape. I guess I wanted to write about how grief can be different for those of us who are wired differently.
You're very welcome. It doesn't matter how long a loved one is gone, they're still missed - and loved, of course. I've been thinking about your last sentence all day, and I have to admit that I don't understand. Please explain?
This one: Today would have been my mothers 81st birthday. (which is in the "normal version" actually an afterthought in italic, because indeed today would have been her birthday) or the true last line:
Neither, actually. Those lines made perfect sense! I was referring to the last line in your comment: "Yet we do grief more than you lost people, don't we?"
Jeannine, Grief doesn’t just come from death. It comes from everything we’ve lost along the way—dreams, dignity, belonging, parts of ourselves.
When I wrote that, I meant: some of us carry grief that isn’t tied to one person or one moment. It’s layered. Accumulated. Woven into the everyday. The kind of grief that doesn’t get a funeral. That doesn’t get named. That we’ve had to hold silently for years
So yes, we do grief—as a verb, as a daily act of living with loss. Not because we want to, not because it’s noble, but because life left us no other way.
90 words of Grief
____________________
She has trouble remembering her husband's face. It's only been a week since he died. She can't believe it, just as she can't believe that the only thing she remembers about Peter is his voice. It's as if all that ever existed was his voice. Peter must be angry,
- Maria, don't ever forget me, he said minutes before he died. And it was only when she wrote these words that Maria realized that the last thing she heard was his voice. And that's what will remain forever. Never forget me.
What an eternally torturous story, Miguel. So evocative, it leaves me with questions that I suspect cannot be answered...
60mg of Grief:
At the end of each long school day, tired from sports and mathematics and bullies who mash her sandwiches into the playground, the sound of Dad’s car tyres scrunching into the driveway comforts her.
After being enveloped in his goodnight embrace, she drifts off when the scratch of his day’s stubble on her soft brow sheds the worries of her youth away. His calming whispers tip her into nightly dreams.
But when other footsteps crunch and ring the doorbell instead, grief wakes her up and never lets her rest again.
Oh, that's heartbreaking.
Thank you, Jeannine! Fortunately this one was pure fiction.
The Spacer's Annual Dance
--
“May I have this dance?” Edward said, guiding his wife to the dance floor.
She placed her arm around him, “It’s been a good year, thanks to that engine upgrade you did.”
“Only made possible by your insane trade deal.”
“You out-flew the pirates…”
“Wasn’t me manning the guns.”
Both smiled, spiralling around the dance floor.
***
“Who’s the old man?” you ask, nodding towards a seated man, eyes closed, swaying.
“That’s Ted, always came with his wife until she died a few years back. Now he just comes and watches.”
The Weight
At first it will start in the soles, an ever-sinking feeling.
Your head, will fill with glass and sand. Every word will sound like, "sorry"
to the point where you just stop listening.
And every corner will carry a ghost, even where darkness cannot reach.
And everyone will say, "I can't say that I understand", except for the ones
that do, and still not have the right answer. So, you will sit with this feeling until it takes shape
becoming the one grieve, and still, that will not be enough.
GRIEF (90)
I always thought a bereaved person would lose her appetite. Instead, after a few days, I longed to eat all of your favorite foods. I went to the deli to order turkey and Swiss on a roll, as if consuming it would somehow bring you back. I recreated the meatloaf you used to make. I bought a canned imitation of the cocktail you served me the day we met. My first words to you were, “I’ll have a margarita on the rocks, no salt, please.” My last: “See you soon.”
48 hrs. without power. Maybe another 48. We survived the ice storm. This is a piece of cake!
I'm late today but here it is.
90 mg of grief
“The generator is not working,” Curtis intoned sadly.
“What are we going to do about…,” Kim asked, nodding towards the freezer. She had some concerns.
“I know,” replied Curis, “Bad timing. The good news is it will take a few days for things to defrost. We will have to cover everything in blankets. They will help keep everthing frozen.
Kim looked sceptical. “Good grief. We will need to move up our plans.“
“Finding the perfect place to dump a frozen body will take come planning.”
“Let’s get to it then.”
I am always a fan of a little macabre.
90 Words - Grief
Grief filled the house after losing Kaden.
His gentle eyes, once full of warmth, had closed for the last time as I whispered goodbye.
Now, the silence was deafening.
His blanket sat empty, and his favorite chew toy remained untouched.
Even the other dogs felt his absence.
Reagan waited by the door, ears perked, hoping Kaden would return.
Remmie paced the house, searching for her missing friend.
Their quiet whimpers echoed my own sorrow.
Grief lingered in every corner, reminding us all of the love Kaden left behind.
RIP, baby.
Oh, the grief of losing a pet, it's so so painful.
Let me preface this by stating I am not a poet and I don’t know why I wrote a poem, but this is what came to mind so I rolled with it.
One day you’ll look back
Perhaps many years from now
When the pains mostly faded
And you’re left wondering how
How you spent all those years
Living in your grief
Searching for answers
When what you needed was relief
And when that day comes, do not feel regret
Simply weep for what you were
And brace for what’s to come
For your journey
Is not quite over yet.
You're a poet and didn't know it! Sometimes the words want to be a poem. Well done!
Thank you!
when the poetry hits, just go with it my friend.
The saddest memories of my life carry no more emotional weight than does the memory of fastening my shoelaces this morning. One of the benefits of having aphantastia and zero memory. Happiness, grief, sadness, joy…all those memories are the same. A tiny man whispering in the other room.
This is one of the most powerful pieces I've read today.
Do you have aphantastia?
I do not (thank goodness), but I've read a lot about it (and I'm ageing fast). I think that sentence "A tiny man whispering in ther other room" just really got to me. A powerful piece.
I was shopping for new curtains when I felt her loss.
9 weeks, too early to know, but somehow I did.
Third round of daily injections, twice weekly blood tests, invasive ultrasounds and the constant reminder by a less than subtle health “professional” that I was not “normal”.
I grieved my inadequacy daily.
I grieved my privacy.
I grieved my self-worth.
But on that day, I grieved for the future.
Hers, never to be. And mine, futile.
The forgotten grievers, indeed. Bravo.
been right there 7 times. 8 dead little beans and only once a heartbeat. Its crushing. Hope you are ok
Thank you Nick, so sorry for your losses too. Dads are just as affected.
its the helplessness and having to watch your partner go through the hell of it - that's really tough. So many people I know suffered through it, but most of them got a child or two in the end, it seems, including my sister and my niece and nephew to prove it. so glad to see you have your boys.
Well now, you got me crying. This was an excellent read
That stopped me in my tracks.
I can feel the weight in each line—how the smallest moment, like shopping for curtains, can split open the space we try so hard to hold together. That sudden awareness, not yet confirmed yet undeniably known—those are the kinds of truths the body carries even when no one else has spoken them aloud.
The layering of grief—grieving not only a child but your own body, your dignity, your sense of being worthy, your imagined future—that kind of grief doesn’t come in waves, it is the tide. Constant. Pulling everything under.
What struck me most was how quietly yet powerfully you named the many losses hidden inside just one. That line—I grieved for the future—landed hard. Because sometimes, the most painful thing isn’t what was, but what never will be.
If you ever feel like expanding this piece or sitting with someone who sees the layers behind it, I’d be honored to read more.
…the most painful thing isn’t what was, but what never will be.
Or, as here, what could have been:
John Greenleaf Whittier, “76 Maud Muller”
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
Nic nailed it, with very sharp, painful nails.
thank you - it's the one subject that wrecks me every time. I have just ruined today's perfectly applied mascara - at my desk - of all places...
Hard fought, and won, I now have 2 "strapping young lads" as my father calls them. My heart on legs. I nearly lost both, one at 2 days old. The second at birth, and then the danger to survive was me..
I am not sure I could expand. Snippets let out occasionally - are just too heavy.
Thank you for your kind words. xx
t’s a crime to ruin mascara for a story—and yet, to ruin it for remembering what was, and the unlived life tied to it, and to process that reality through snippets and fragments—that is something.
I can feel the angst, the despair in your words—and also the hope, the elation that it turned out differently. Twice. And now there’s a future to build on.
Nic... 😭😭😭
Lange, Dorothea, photographer. Along the highway near Bakersfield, California. Dust bowl refugees. Nov. Photograph. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/2017759225/>.
Paul leaned on the shovel, gazing out across the cloudy sky. He hoped it would rain soon so that his tears could be explained away, but he was certain the clouds were taunting. Loss upon loss this last year. The crops withered before they took root, which meant he would lose the land this time. His wife was nursing their fourth child, but the lack of food meant her milk supply wouldn't last. The other three were always hungry. He needed a new dream; this one was dead. Maybe California.
i would love to include a link to this in my post tomorrow if that's okay?
the next Charms i promised to release has to do with the aftermath of suicide.
Did I ever share you this?
https://youtu.be/UsMYNgAjex0
No but it looks right up my alley.
I have a very complicated relationship with suicide.
Sure thing! :)
Grief 90 words
They brought them to the funeral. Seemed everyone was packing, carrying, loaded, strapped, decked out, armed to the teeth, whatever. I saw some on hips, in jacket pockets, on the belt, back of the pants, vest pockets, the side of a sock even. Seemed everybody had at least one, and nobody was shy about it. Happens when it’s a kid. Shit hits harder. I get it. It does funny things to people — grief — different things. Some want the anger, some the sadness, others, numbness. I never seen so many flasks.
wow. Mr Long. 90 words and they all counted.
🙏Thanks, Nick
A heartbreaker today, Miguel. Here's mine. I apologize in advance, but it's a major overdose. I couldn't figure out how to tell the story in fewer words...
----------------
Father Joe had promised to check in on Stephen after mother's death, but when I saw my brother excitedly waving a copy of Kübler Ross's book, I realized that Father had ignored my advice. Stephen doesn't process emotions like most of us.
"Look, Mary, I followed all the steps in this stupid book," he explained as he led me to the living room, where Mom's urn sat on the coffee table. "Denial is just stupid, well, because Mother's dead and all burnt up and in that jar. I tried anger: I even looked up a bunch of naughty words to yell, but it didn't help. Bargaining? Well, that's just stupid, too, what could I promise to do that would bring Mother back? Nothing. And I have no idea why Father Joe would want me to be depressed." Stephen looked frustrated.
"So that just leaves acceptance, then," I said, trying to keep my tears at bay.
"Yeah, but Father Joe says I need to grieve PROPERLY. According to these instructions, I'm not supposed to skip straight to acceptance." Stephen liked checklists. He wanted to do everything the "right" way, the way "everybody else" does things, but didn't realize that most people don't need a checklist to feel emotion.
I decided it would be best to keep him busy. "So where do Mom's ashes belong? Surely not here on the coffee table." Stephen was most comfortable when everything was just so. I knew that he would have a place set up for our mother.
“No, of course not, Mary,” he replied, carefully picking up the urn. “Come, I'll show you where I keep her.”
He led me out to the garden, to a new area, surrounded by a meticulously placed border of granite blocks. We followed a flagstone path through a lovely flower bed, filled with all of Mom’s favorites, to a tiny mausoleum, built up of more granite blocks. Stephen gently placed Mom’s urn into a niche deep inside the structure. My heart broke when I realized that Stephen had created this beautiful space for our mother, all alone, with his own hands.
"Father Joe says I need to grieve. I tried, but I don't know how. What can I do?"
My tears were flowing freely by now. "Nothing, Stephen. You're doing just fine. We don't all grieve the same way."
As I held my brother in a stiff, rare hug, I realized that it would be okay. I could grieve enough for both of us.
This is a stunning story. Well done.
Thank you so much.
Very touching and personal.
Thank you, but it's all fiction. I'm kind of surprised that people seem to think it's autobiographical... but I'm glad you enjoyed reading it.
beautiful.
Thank you.
yours was so so perfect Jeannine. Compassionate and real and meaningful, and I just feel a bit stupid that amongst all of this personal pain that people have chosen to share, I chose now, this moment, to write about my stupid annoying cat.
Thank you, Nick, but it isn't REAL real. It's all made up. And don't forget about writing about your cat. Loss is where you love. Plus cats are people, too, even the stupid, annoying ones. 🐱
he's a ginger tom - they are always the most stupid - and your story sounded so real I felt it must be!
It felt real to me, too, but Stephen and Mary are figments of my imagination. I've never met my Mom's cat, whevever I visit, she hides in the laundry chute (the cat, not my mother!). She only blesses certain people with her presence: Mom, one of my brothers (but not the other three), and my eldest son. She's a very picky kitty...
That last line undid me.
I didn’t feel like I was reading a story—I felt like I was standing in that garden with you, watching Stephen gently place the urn into a space shaped not just by granite, but by love, precision, and the only language of grief he knew how to speak.
The tenderness here lives in the small details. The checklist. The curse words he had to look up. The way he built a home for your mother’s ashes, as if grief could be made bearable through order. Through doing. Through care. And in a way, maybe it can.
What moved me most was how gently you let him be himself. No fixing. No pushing. Just presence. That moment of holding him, even stiffly, felt like a soft landing—one that maybe he didn’t even know he needed.
You didn’t overdose. You honored him. And in doing so, you gave grief a different shape—one that includes love, acceptance, and quiet devotion. I'm really grateful you shared this.
She took me on that ride as well. Masterfully composed.
Thank you so much. You folks are all so very kind.
Thank you. This story is pure imagination, though. My real life mother is alive and well. But I do sometimes get the feeling that I'm traveling an alien landscape. I guess I wanted to write about how grief can be different for those of us who are wired differently.
It is nevertheless a deeply personal story that tells so much about you, the person, your kindness. It is a wonderful story, fictional or not.
Thank you...
That. Is. Beautiful. I'm glad you didn't stick to the word limit.
Thank you.
90mg of grief
Grief doesn’t knock. It slips in through the seams—too early, too often.
⚰️
Forty-three.
Sixty-seven.
Twenty-nine.
Sixty-four.
🪦
They barely began to settle. Only my grandmother lived longer—eighty.
Loss came in waves—
🚘
Brutal.
Then expected.
Then brutally tragic.
And tragic again.
🦀
Two hundred years of life compressed into absence. I kept count, as if numbers could name what I’d lost.
✝️
Grief—
became a habit.
❤️🩹
I learned to fold sorrow into morning coffee. Some days, I wear it like skin. Still, gratitude grows wild at the edges.
Even in grief,
I remember love.
❤️
A Note at the side: Today would have been my mothers 81st birthday
I am sorry for your loss.
Thank you Jeannine, that last loss of a person is now already 5 years in the past. Yet we do grief more than you lost people, don't we?
You're very welcome. It doesn't matter how long a loved one is gone, they're still missed - and loved, of course. I've been thinking about your last sentence all day, and I have to admit that I don't understand. Please explain?
This one: Today would have been my mothers 81st birthday. (which is in the "normal version" actually an afterthought in italic, because indeed today would have been her birthday) or the true last line:
Even in grief,
I remember love.?
Neither, actually. Those lines made perfect sense! I was referring to the last line in your comment: "Yet we do grief more than you lost people, don't we?"
Jeannine, Grief doesn’t just come from death. It comes from everything we’ve lost along the way—dreams, dignity, belonging, parts of ourselves.
When I wrote that, I meant: some of us carry grief that isn’t tied to one person or one moment. It’s layered. Accumulated. Woven into the everyday. The kind of grief that doesn’t get a funeral. That doesn’t get named. That we’ve had to hold silently for years
So yes, we do grief—as a verb, as a daily act of living with loss. Not because we want to, not because it’s noble, but because life left us no other way.