Darlin’, this one hit me like a cold toe in the Sabine at daybreak.
You wrote this with the same hush the bayou keeps right before it decides whether to swallow you whole or spit you back out. That river scene... fog low, robe heavy, rocks whispering their old promises... felt like home in the way only dark water can feel like home. Folks who ain’t lived near a river that remembers things won’t understand a word of what you’re saying, but I do.
And those two big‑back turtles?
Lord.
Only the Gulf Coast would send its slowest creatures to interrupt the most serious moment of your life. That’s how the dark water talks to us... never gentle, never polite, but always with a message.
The way you walked back into that house, dripping river ghosts across the tile, hiding the crime scene of a morning that “never happened” ... that’s the kind of quiet that rattles louder than thunder. You wrote it with the stillness of a woman who’s been underwater longer than she admits.
And the pebble.
Yeah.
We all keep one.
Some of us in our pockets, some in our chest, some in the soft part of the palm where the world can’t see it.
Your story isn’t about dying.
It’s about the strange, stubborn way the living keeps dragging us back... sometimes by the toe.
You told it beautifully.
You told it true.
And you told it with the kind of fog‑lit grace that only someone who’s stood in dark water before dawn can manage.
This is the essay I didn’t know I needed to read… I felt seen in a way that was almost frightening. But not.
Because death, sorrow, grief was so tender and gentle that it felt like a warm embrace.
« The idea that no matter how little control you had over your life, you might still have some control over the way it ended was comforting. The location. The timing. The dress. The weather.
I suppose that was what I had wanted this morning. »
I’ve never known how to describe it - I still don’t know if I can - but there is a quiet grief that comes from failing to die.
Although that’s not really what it is, is it? Your passage from Wisdom describes it best 🩵 take care
While this may not change anything, I’m glad you stayed with us long enough to write this
Darlin’, this one hit me like a cold toe in the Sabine at daybreak.
You wrote this with the same hush the bayou keeps right before it decides whether to swallow you whole or spit you back out. That river scene... fog low, robe heavy, rocks whispering their old promises... felt like home in the way only dark water can feel like home. Folks who ain’t lived near a river that remembers things won’t understand a word of what you’re saying, but I do.
And those two big‑back turtles?
Lord.
Only the Gulf Coast would send its slowest creatures to interrupt the most serious moment of your life. That’s how the dark water talks to us... never gentle, never polite, but always with a message.
The way you walked back into that house, dripping river ghosts across the tile, hiding the crime scene of a morning that “never happened” ... that’s the kind of quiet that rattles louder than thunder. You wrote it with the stillness of a woman who’s been underwater longer than she admits.
And the pebble.
Yeah.
We all keep one.
Some of us in our pockets, some in our chest, some in the soft part of the palm where the world can’t see it.
Your story isn’t about dying.
It’s about the strange, stubborn way the living keeps dragging us back... sometimes by the toe.
You told it beautifully.
You told it true.
And you told it with the kind of fog‑lit grace that only someone who’s stood in dark water before dawn can manage.
Keep writing.
The river’s still listening.
.......
Crisis Text Line
https://www.crisistextline.org/
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
https://988lifeline.org
Steve
I like this piece - glad to see ur return
Also, this needs to be an audiobook
This is the essay I didn’t know I needed to read… I felt seen in a way that was almost frightening. But not.
Because death, sorrow, grief was so tender and gentle that it felt like a warm embrace.
« The idea that no matter how little control you had over your life, you might still have some control over the way it ended was comforting. The location. The timing. The dress. The weather.
I suppose that was what I had wanted this morning. »
I’ve never known how to describe it - I still don’t know if I can - but there is a quiet grief that comes from failing to die.
Although that’s not really what it is, is it? Your passage from Wisdom describes it best 🩵 take care
While this may not change anything, I’m glad you stayed with us long enough to write this