I took a brief hiatus from my blogging this week. 2017 has come in with a crashing of symbols and disharmony and, quite frankly, I’m ready to start over fresh.
Over the weekend, I got a text from my dad. My brother was in the hospital. And he’s fine now and aside from Donald Trump, my life is slowly falling back into place. But ironing out the kinks is proving to be tougher than I thought. The wrinkles are determined. I’m struggling, because this year has been an odd juxtaposition from the start; ripe with little moments of beauty tucked within the fluttering pages of my life’s manuscript, which closely resembles the screenplay for a series of unfortunate events.
And so I reflect back on this weekend. On my brother, lying in the hospital bed, tucked into an oversized, paper thin gown, his face sallow and tired, his chest wracked…
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