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Love & Grief, Los Angeles, CA (2026)

06/14/2026

The man is standing at the cliff edge

in a world that has gone entirely grey.
No color — not the grey-blue of grief

or the soft lavender of longing —

just grey, all the way through:

the rock beneath his feet,

the fog in the valley,

the mountains barely there

behind the white,

and he stands with his hands

in his pockets

the way you stand

when you have stopped

looking for somewhere to put them.
The hardest part was learning —

not the losing, which happened

all at once,

but the learning,

which happens every morning

when you wake

into the same grey-white

and have to remember

how to be a person

in a world

that kept its shape

without changing color

to show what happened.
Grey throughout. Unchanged.
I miss my husband —

three words that do not contain it

and are all there is.

He stands at the edge

where the rock ends

and the fog begins,

and the valley below is white

and the mountains behind are white

and he is the only dark thing

in all of it —

the only one who knows

what this grey cost —
— Love & Grief

06/14/2026

A hand is holding a red rose upward

and the butterflies on the left are all going up.
Dark butterflies — not delicate,

not soft-edged,

but solid and dark as ink

climbing the left side of the page

in a loose ascending trail

from large at the bottom

to small at the top,

and the hand below

holds the rose

the way you hold something

you are not sure

what to do with,

but hold anyway.
You became my reason —

and reason is a strange word for it,

not logic, not purpose,

but the organizing principle

of a whole life:

the thing that made the morning

make sense,

that made the afternoon

have a shape,

that made the holding of things

feel like it mattered —

and the hand still holds the rose

without the reason.
Still holds. Anyway.
The butterflies keep ascending

darker at the base

and smaller at the top —

what's left of me

is the hand,

the rose, the holding,

and the question

that does not resolve:

what do you do

with a hand

that still knows

how to hold —
— Love & Grief

06/14/2026

The cardinal is standing on the rose

and both are reflected in the water.
Two of everything —

the red bird, the red bloom,

and below the surface

the same red bird, the same red bloom,

reversed and slightly blurred

the way memory reverses things

and makes them both

exactly as they were

and different,

the fog of the tree line behind

softening the distance

into something that is not quite present

and not quite gone.
I never wanted you to be a memory —

and yet here is what memory does:

it makes two of you,

one I can see clearly

and one that shimmers

when the water moves,

both of them red,

both of them real

in different ways,

and I stand on the bank

of this image

trying to decide

which one I am looking at.
Both. Always both.
The cardinal stands on the rose

as if it has always stood there,

as if the rose was made for this,

as if the water below

was always going to hold

this particular reflection —

and the fog keeps sitting

in the trees behind them,

soft and permanent,

and both of the birds

look back —
— Love & Grief

06/14/2026

She is sitting in the clouds

with her face pressed into her knees.
Barefoot — that is the detail

I keep returning to —

no shoes on a cloud,

as if she arrived here

without preparing,

without the ordinary things

you bring when you go somewhere,

because grief does not give you

time to find your shoes,

it just puts you down

in a soft white place

with a cardinal above you.
The cardinal is the only sharp thing —

red and specific and moving

through the cloud-blue above her,

and I have been thinking

about what it means

that the sharpest, most present thing

in all this softness

is not loss but love —

still flying, still red,

still crossing the same sky

as all this grief,

refusing to go grey.
Refusing. Still red.
I was never ready —

no one is, and yet

here we are in the clouds,

barefoot and folded,

and the cardinal keeps crossing

above the grief we are sitting in,

above the white we did not choose,

red as it always was,

moving the way love moves

when it has nowhere to land

and keeps flying

anyway —
— Love & Grief

06/13/2026

The red rose is lying beside the glowing heart

and the dove is rising above both.
Three things in the same vertical —

the rose on the ground, stem and all,

the heart lit from within

the way something glows

when it refuses

to go dark,

and the dove above them

rising into a column of light

so bright it becomes the source

of the whole image —

and none of the three

is doing the same thing

as the others.
The rose is placed. The heart glows. The dove rises.

That is what love and grief do

when they have been together long enough:

they stop doing the same thing

at the same time

and start doing different things

in the same space —

one remembers on its knees,

one burns quietly through the night,

one keeps going upward

into the light

without stopping.
Without stopping.
Those we love — yes.

The rose lies where it was placed

by someone who came and went.

The heart keeps its light

without being asked.

The dove is already somewhere

past the frame,

and all three are still

the same love,

moving at different speeds

through the same blue air,

in the same vertical —
— Love & Grief

06/13/2026

The child is holding a red heart

and a white feather is drifting between them.
Between the child and the tree —

that is where the feather is,

mid-air, unhurried,

in the fog that has softened everything

to the same blue-grey,

the tree full-leafed but muted,

the child small and dark

and holding the red thing

close to his chest

the way you hold something

you are not ready to put down,

not ready to set on the ground

and walk away from.
I have not heard your voice in years.

That sentence has a sound to it —

the specific quiet

left by a voice you knew

so completely

that its absence

has a shape,

a temperature,

and the heart keeps talking anyway,

sending the conversation upward

into the fog

where the feather drifts

without needing to be caught.
Without being caught.
The tree stands in the mist.

The feather moves between them.

The child holds the red heart

and does not put it down,

and the heart keeps speaking

in the voice it remembers —

not out loud,

not where anyone can hear —

but in the grey-blue fog

between the child

and the tree,

every day —
— Love & Grief

06/13/2026

The butterfly is glowing on the stone

and the stone is not.
That is the whole image, almost —

the grey-smooth river stone

doing what stones do,

sitting in the lavender air

with no particular brightness,

and the butterfly on it

generating its own light,

gold and warm and radiating outward

into the purple that surrounds it

from everywhere,

as if the moment

it chose to land

became luminous by that fact alone.
You never know the value of a moment —

that is the plain truth of it —

not while you are in it,

not while the stone is just a stone

and the afternoon is just

an afternoon,

and the butterfly is simply

a thing that landed

and will lift again

and you did not catalog it

because you did not know

you were supposed to.
Supposed to. Didn't.
And now the memory glows

the way the butterfly glows —

retroactively luminous,

lit from within

by the knowing that came after,

by the grief that arrived

and showed you

what the moment weighed,

what it was worth,

what it always was —

that ordinary stone,

that extraordinary light —
— Love & Grief

06/13/2026

She is sitting at the end of a stone pier

with her hair moving in the wind.
The birds are crossing the upper sky

in a loose formation —

small and grey and not looking down —

and she is facing the water

that is the same color as everything else:

the sky, the air, the distance,

all of it the same pale blue-grey

that is neither day nor night

but the specific color of a mind

that keeps stopping

mid-sentence

to say: I still can't believe it.
The birds keep flying.

That is the part that gets me —

not that the world ended

but that it kept going,

that the birds crossed the sky

on an ordinary morning

and she sat at the end of the pier

facing water that did not explain itself,

holding both the love

and the disbelief

that they arrived together

and keep arriving

together, daily.
Daily. Still.
So many times each day — yes.

The stone is solid beneath her.

The water moves without asking.

The birds have already crossed

out of the frame

and she is still here

at the end of the pier

in the wind,

stopping again,

the same thought

arriving the same way

it always does —
— Love & Grief

06/12/2026

She has her eyes closed

and her face resting against him.
The figure is made of the same blue

as the night sky behind them —

not absent, not gone,

but made of the air itself,

the way someone becomes

after enough time:

present in a different register,

the stars visible through

and around the outline of him,

and the cardinal on his shoulder

is the sharpest thing in the image —

red and awake

while she rests.
There is no way back to normal —

I understood that the first morning

the other side of the bed

held its shape without being asked,

and I have been relearning

what normal means

ever since —

not without you

but with the version of you

that is now made of night air

and stars and the cardinal's red

that keeps arriving

like a specific insistence.
Specific insistence.
She has her eyes closed.

That is not absence —

it is the posture of someone

who knows this particular shape

well enough

to rest against it in the dark,

who does not need to see

to know what is there,

who holds the grief and the love

against her cheek

with her eyes

gently closed —
— Love & Grief

06/12/2026

A blue butterfly has landed on a daisy

in the middle of a lavender field.
One daisy — not a field of them,

just this one,

white petals, yellow center,

the blue butterfly settled

at the exact middle of it,

as if it found the one specific thing

it was looking for

in all that purple-grey,

the way grief finds

the one specific person

it is about,

the one it will not

generalize into anything softer.
Nothing broke my heart like losing you —

not like anything similar,

not like grief in the broad sense —

like you specifically,

the particular size of you

in my life,

the exact yellow center

of the specific ordinary days

we had,

and the blue butterfly

that keeps finding that flower

is love doing

the same refusing:

not just any bloom.
That one. Yours.
The lavender goes in every direction

without offering an alternative.

The daisy is the only white

in all that field,

and the butterfly

that chose it

is still there,

wings slightly open,

the way love stays

slightly open

even in the middle

of all that grey —
— Love & Grief

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