By M. A. Stirnaman
The messed-up thing is, she didn’t even leave a note. She fancied herself a writer. Like a burned book she had no words for me in her last moments. She could pen a cliché or two in a lengthy tale of fabricated wisdom, but she would not muster a single apology for her only child.
This is what I am left with. A suicide most likely but impossible to confirm. Empty pill bottles and cardboard vino.
I like to pretend sometimes that it was all an accident. Why say goodbye if you don’t plan on leaving?
My mother taught me optimism.
Very bittersweet; leaves me feeling sad and hopeful at the same time. Nice job, M. A.
This is a beautiful testament to human resolve and grace. While deeply sorry for your loss, I am equally impressed by your navigation within it.
You have struck chords here that are both minor and major. The resulting melody is lovely.
Hope writing this eases your sadness. Love you.
Beautifully written. A wide range of emotions rise up from just these few sentences. Nicely done, sir!
Life, and death, are messed up.
Powerful and beautifully composed story that captures the essence of our wants and needs.
This writing definitely struck home for me and was well written, powerful, and beautiful.
Well written, my friend. Sad and beautiful.