by Jojo Moyes
First sentence: “When he emerges from the bathroom, she is awake, propped up against the pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that were beside his bed.” 235 more words
Tags » Death & Dying
When someone dies, after the shock, the denial, the tearful goodbyes; after the guilt of what more could I have done; after following their ghost-flickers in places they once were, I stop and remind myself that others have gone before them, blazed the trail across the Bridge, and somehow that makes this new loss easier to bear. 133 more words
A hand fan sits at the side table by my office chair.
I have become a lady with a hand fan.
And when a client tells me something that makes me laugh, or makes me anxious, or activates my over-protective anger on their behalf, or touches on some topic that leads toward a shame of my own – or sometimes for absolutely no reason at all – I feel a sudden flush, like a little lightening strike – that sends tentacles up and down my arms and up to my throat, past my ears up to my scalp and think: 1,745 more words