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I had said that I wanted – that I needed – to narrate this process, this journey through the experience of my father’s death. But it’s hard. I return to my bed (so far from home) at the end of each day and I am fatigued to the very tippy-toes of my soul. So while…

Two weeks ago, a week or so before my father died, I read a post, as part of the Community Keynote at BlogHer. My father figured in the story that I told in that post. It was a post that was mostly about my mother, but my father figured centrally, and his role in that…

My father died last week. My Dad, who I loved so very much, who I will always love so very, very much. We still don’t know when or how, exactly – he was alone, and the circumstances of his death are, for the moment, more or less unknown – and that leaves us in a…

August, 2006. That was what my little feminist looked like before she grew hair and an attitude. No, wait. She always had the attitude. Hair just seems to have intensified it.
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