Words are our imperfect tools.
When we are trying to find new ways of being in the world,
we seek out new,
repurpose former barbs,
discard the irredeemable altogether.
I’ve been traversing the terrain of death and feeling the scratch of the scrawny constellations of vowel, consonant and meaning that we have access to…
Your loved one is in the care of the coroner.
Ah, says my rational brain: an institutional compassion.
Your loved one has taken up assisted dying.
More sage nodding from the RB: naming new, brave ways of leaving.
The words reach my ears, richochet through my brain, and some days land in my heart.
Some days. Not all the days.
We miss you.
Those words, though.
They’re eternal.
No changes required.
Stardust Becoming 