I read this so slowly, so carefully, and I don't know how you managed to write something so beautiful, so haunting, so harrowing. My brow is furrowed as I type this because your pain is universal. A friend of mine just lost her daughter to cancer, she was 33, and I feel like an inside out sweater when I try to think of what to say to her, because she is unraveled, and there are no words, just quiet presence.
I've saved this text to read it at the right time... I knew it couldn't be any day, or any time. Today was the day, and I read it while accompanied by your recorded reading, Mary (an impeccable and powerful read.) It's a thing of beauty, of pain and remembrance... I don't think there's a more powerful eulogy online. Thank you for sharing with us. I will come back here to visit this essay from time to time.
Oh, goodness, thank you so. I remember when my son died rereading Joan Didion's _The Year of Magical Thinking_ where she says, late in the book, "You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."
This is so exquisitely beautiful and expressed in a language that we can all relate to even if we've not experienced this particular grief. I still grieve deeply for my parents who thankfully did not go before their time; so I can only imagine what depths it must take to grieve the death of a son. As I read it, even tho' I am not Jewish, all your symbolism made sense, in a way that this became also a lovely instruction "manual" on how to make sense of grief. Thank you for writing this, dear Mary.
This piece is stunningly poignant, heart-wrenchingly sad, and yet, so beautiful too. So many emotions come through via your words. Mostly, love. Yes, mostly love indeed. Thank you for letting us into your grieving heart - a sacred space. Honored and humbled for the glimpses you share. xo
Mary,
I read this so slowly, so carefully, and I don't know how you managed to write something so beautiful, so haunting, so harrowing. My brow is furrowed as I type this because your pain is universal. A friend of mine just lost her daughter to cancer, she was 33, and I feel like an inside out sweater when I try to think of what to say to her, because she is unraveled, and there are no words, just quiet presence.
Thank you,
Francesca
I've saved this text to read it at the right time... I knew it couldn't be any day, or any time. Today was the day, and I read it while accompanied by your recorded reading, Mary (an impeccable and powerful read.) It's a thing of beauty, of pain and remembrance... I don't think there's a more powerful eulogy online. Thank you for sharing with us. I will come back here to visit this essay from time to time.
Thinking of you today with love.
Beautiful.
So beautiful. So moving. Thank you for sharing this passage through grief, this call for lifeboats.
Ah, Alida. We were so meant to connect.
I'm so hoping you will find time for Who by Fire: https://substack.com/@maryltabor/note/c-100782373
How beautiful, Mary. And how raw. Thank you for sharing this.
Liza, bless you for reading and for your words here.
i agree with what david wrote in the comment before ... it's a sacred text.
thank you for writing it ... and bless you.
"I’m carried on the surge of the ocean under sky that rains into the sea of loss."
Heart to heart, as I said in your restack: Thank you for that, as well.
I cannot imagine this loss. Thank you for your words -- I can feel your grief. We haven't met, but I'm sending you much love.
Ah, my heart to yours, Harriet. xx
This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read about grief. And I’ve read many. Thank you for sharing this.
My heart to yours -- you words about this essay so close to my heart moved me to tears, Tracey.
I lost my wife last May. This. Every word. Thank you.
Oh, goodness, thank you so. I remember when my son died rereading Joan Didion's _The Year of Magical Thinking_ where she says, late in the book, "You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."
So much of this is how I have felt, losing my son at 33. Thank you. I think he is with me, and also I know the hollow space.
Yes, "the hollow space" -- so well put and thank you so for reading and posting this comment.
This is so exquisitely beautiful and expressed in a language that we can all relate to even if we've not experienced this particular grief. I still grieve deeply for my parents who thankfully did not go before their time; so I can only imagine what depths it must take to grieve the death of a son. As I read it, even tho' I am not Jewish, all your symbolism made sense, in a way that this became also a lovely instruction "manual" on how to make sense of grief. Thank you for writing this, dear Mary.
So much thought, Reena, went into your comment and made me so grateful to virtually know you.
Dear Mary - thinking of you every day and hoping you are safe.
Oh, Elizabeth, you are lovely ...
Thank-you. This is beautiful, heartbreaking and deeply moving. I will see the fire-sky and think of your son. And you. xo
Ah, Kim, means so much ... xo
Hi Mary,
This piece is stunningly poignant, heart-wrenchingly sad, and yet, so beautiful too. So many emotions come through via your words. Mostly, love. Yes, mostly love indeed. Thank you for letting us into your grieving heart - a sacred space. Honored and humbled for the glimpses you share. xo
Honored and moved by your read, Nancy.
Thank you for such an openly beautiful description -- all the sincerity, confusion and truthful pain of living inside out
Means so much that you say this, Carol!
Just stunning.
Kindness and more: That's you!