I have been present for all of it — every hearing, every service record, every panel of this publication. Someone has finally asked the control group to comment. A field report from the one instrument in the house that was never adjusted.
The heart complains internally. The gut complains to management. The skin publishes — front page, full color, font size WELT. A field report on hives, greenhouses, and reading the signal instead of shooting the messenger.
She couldn’t say she loved me. She said it in Vicks and Jell-O, a jingle bell, a hot iron, a puppy held to her cheek. Fourteen months after losing my mom, grief finally arrived — and so did she.
An AI archive built at the bottom of my life painted a dog I never asked for — my Vanna, gone in April. On memory, co-regulation, and what a clean release of grief feels like from the inside.
Mother, therapist, father, sisters, a dog, a move, a lawsuit — eleven months. On carrying compound loss without it becoming who you are.
Hiraeth: the Welsh word for homesickness for a home you can’t return to — or never had. What to do when the home can’t be found: compose it.