Even writing this is difficult—and I know what I want to say.

Last year, when my father died, I wrote. Maybe it was because he lived a thousand miles away and I had no means to travel, meaning I had to rely on others to take care of his things, which in turn meant I had a lot of time on my hands and nothing to do (despite having just started a new job). But I wrote. A lot. Writing helped me keep it together, while providing an emotional outlet.

This year, on the first anniversary of my father’s death, my mother died. Continue reading