grief
Losing a family member is one of the most traumatic life events; Families must support one another to endure the five stages of grief and get through it together.
Suicide Gone Wrong
At age 18, I ended up marrying the one whom my parents didn't approve of me seeing, the one who took my virginity when I was 15. In the beginning, our marriage was good, but when I got pregnant, he began looking at pornography and not wanting anything to do with me in the bedroom. I grew increasingly jealous, hating pornography for the effect it had already had on my life.
By Adrienne Huggins5 years ago in Families
Where There's a Will
“You’re always writing in that old thing” she chuckled. “That’s one hell of a shopping list for me, Mary”. Mary looked up from her bed of pillows, her half-moon spectacles glinting in the soft light of the mid-morning sun, which now carved a neat slice of warmth into the room. A wry grin gently parted her kindly, aged features. “Well Sam, I do have to work on my writing career, you know” Mary retorted exaggeratively. They shared a short laugh before Sam went back to folding fresh bedlinen, the fragrant wafts of aroma masking the slightly musty scent of the bedroom.
By Robert Bern5 years ago in Families
Shake The Head
Something told her to stay awake, though a crash from caffeine was catching her full throttle. She couldn’t decide if it was fun or not. Not, mostly. She had scored the prize seat on her flight back from her temporary home, by luck! Without paying for it, the airline counter lady had sat her in the last row of the emergency exit section. More legroom plus a reclining seat! An unexpected luxury. A sign.
By Loren Earle5 years ago in Families
The Last Wish
Ben stared at the envelope; it was lilac-colored and lightly scented with the tidy loops of familiar handwriting across the front. "Benjamin Easton." He traced his finger over the elaborate 'B' and took a deep breath in. So this was really it.
By Elizabeth Anderson5 years ago in Families
Bitter/Sweet
Everett awoke, as seemingly endless bittersweet mornings before, cradled between a heap of discarded shipping boxes and a monochromatic blanket retrieved from a hospice donation center. His weathered, solemn brow and slipshod beard still held the crystalline rime of a January night spent under the oceanside boardwalk. He preferred to keep close proximity to the ocean, for the tides lived in his bones as much as they did in the motherly cradle of the earth; forever undulating in tandem between his angelic best or the regrettable business of existence. As of this moment, the only source of palpable warmth visible to an onlooker about his complexion was the perennial ardor of Everett’s dark blue eyes, which rarely failed to greet each new day preciously albeit not without hesitance learned from indefinitely measured time spent merely subsisting.
By Samuel Greenspan5 years ago in Families
My Mothers Diary
R.J. came home from work early with the intentions of taking his wife Valarie out on the town. She was in her eighth month of a high risk pregnancy. Normally, if he wasn't doing overtime, R.J. would come home, cook dinner for her and watch a movie, but for some reason, today he was feeling guilty. For the past month, she'd only left the house for doctor visit. Valarie was beyond frustrated.
By Armien Purcell5 years ago in Families
The Handwriting of Santa
Prologuette I stopped believing in Santa when I was six years old. Life had already begun to disappoint my expectations, so knowledge of this cultural illusion did little to dampen my already soaked spirits. The reason for the spirit-soakage: my parents, in a flash of traumatic brilliance, blindsided my six-year-old reality of familial life with a concept that created a fracture in a seemingly unbreakable bond. This concept has a name, and that name is DIVORCE. The result - as it relates to Santa, anyway - was that Santa would visit both mommy and daddy’s home on the same night. This idea was A-OK to my gift-receiving child brain, even if I didn’t fully understand what divorce implied. The rest of the traumatic rigmarole I compartmentalized into my deep subconscious as if I were choosing to bury a time capsule rigged with atomic explosives. What became interesting, however, was that I discovered Santa’s sophistry when I opened the gifts at my father’s house on Christmas morning. Whatever my powers of perception were at this young age proved adequate enough to notice that Santa’s handwriting had mysteriously changed into that of my father’s. Seeming to already grow used to disappointment, I shrugged nonchalantly to hide my frustration and began opening my presents.
By Tyler Alexander Stevens5 years ago in Families
