My front door with festive graffitti. I hope they don't paint over it.
It's confusing to have so much to think about. And yet, I have the leisure to grapple with my mother's passing on my own schedule. There are many compensations in the midst of grief, such as seeing her laid to rest next to my dad—that is, knowing where she is. The terrible anniversary of September 11 reminds me that many, many people don't have parents who live as long as mine, or the embracing closure my family did. I avoided the commemorations until someone sent this intense piece by the daughter of a member of my synagogue who worked on the tower for one of the TV stations and died on that day.