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The Process
For me, poetry strikes like lightning. Fiction, on the other hand, is pure toil. Sometimes, it's the toil of really great sex. Sometimes it's more like playing solo tag with Dick Butkus wearing a Minnesota Vikings uniform and covered in hot dogs. Sometimes you just get Dick, you know?
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suddenly missing
My mom died in April 2003. She taught me how to make mud pies and ice cream made of snow. She would sweeten my milk with vanilla and sugar and show me how to use food coloring to make it even more fantastic. Halloween and every holiday, every day, was something to celebrate. Unbirthdays and birthdays were treated with equal fervor. She was a marathon shopper, an artist, singer, seamstress, chef, business woman, beach comber, swimmer, ice skater, gardener, beauty queen, dreamer, old movie lover, and was filled with great spirit.
She was great at everything she did, and she was always doing something.
Saying I miss her is an understatement. How much would your lungs miss air if it was suddenly, sadly, missing?
Posted by rowan at October 12, 2007 07:54 PM
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