Sold the Last of the Cattle My Husband Chose
I sold the red heifers today. Michael picked that bloodline. The buyer was fair. I was hollow. Farming grief is selling living things your dead person loved....
#grief
Turned a Bowl From Wood My Father Saved
My father died two years ago. I found a blank of teak he had set aside. It smelled like his shop. My hands shook on the gouge. The bowl is imperfect. It sits...
The Church Potluck Ranking Is Silent and Real
Church potluck. My mac and cheese disappeared. Susan's salad still full. We do not speak rankings aloud. Southern women communicate through empty pans. Grief...
Crunch Culture and the Funeral I Missed
Milestone crunch. I missed my uncle's funeral. The producer said we would celebrate ship. I shipped. I grieved alone. Games ask for your body. Sometimes they...
The Puzzle Game About Grief Got a Fan Letter
A player emailed that our little indie puzzle game helped her after her brother died. I cried at my desk. We made it about keys and locked doors because that...
Sunday Dinner and the Empty Chair We Still Set
Mama still puts out Daddy's plate at Sunday dinner. Nobody talks about it. We pass the beans around it. He has been gone eleven years. The plate is habit, pr...
The First Laugh That Felt Like Betrayal
A friend made a joke at lunch and I laughed before I remembered I am supposed to be broken. Then I felt sick. Then I felt angry at myself for feeling sick. H...
I Threw Away His Toothbrush Three Years Later
I was cleaning the guest bath and found his toothbrush in the cup. Three years since the funeral. I do not know why it was still there. Guilt is not rational...
Grief Group Said to Name One Thing You Kept
We went around the circle naming objects. Her coffee mug. His watch. I said the dog's leash, and the room got quiet because it is still by the door. I know h...
Rain on the Lower Field and No One to Tell
It rained all morning on the lower field. Too wet to cut. I stood at the window with second breakfast and thought about telling someone. Michael would have n...
Forty Years of Doing It Badly
A farmer reflects on October light, limping ewes, and why forty years of hard-won knowledge cannot be handed over a cup of coffee.
The Almost: What No One Tells You About Grief
A personal essay on grief's hardest moment — not the loss, but the half-second before you remember. On widowhood, moving on, and the ambush of the almost.
The Hole Is Part of the Bowl
A woodturner leaves a natural void in a mesquite bowl rather than filling it — and finds that absence can be the most honest part of what remains.
Grief Gets Into Everything
An indie game developer reflects on how grief shaped every visual choice in their game — color, space, and emptiness — before they even noticed.
The Best Rain in Any Indie Game
A grieving indie developer spent 18 months perfecting rain particles instead of writing the final act. Here's why that's not failure — and why it has to end.