Toni Lepeska
When a Parent Dies
Are you in the winter of the soul, a season of darkness and barrenness? Maybe you wonder if there could ever be a spring again. January is cold, even here in the South. The trees are bare. The ground is hard. The grass is pale. Life is asleep. Sometimes my inner life looks like the …
Have you ever suffered? A silly question, right? Haven’t we all suffered in some form? Perhaps not as much as others, but we have suffered. I found a poem years ago, and I want to share it with you today. It’s called A Creed For Those Who Have Suffered. I found a copy of it …
I expected a grand attack of grief upon the 10th anniversary of my father’s death, but it passed with a poised emotional response at the cemetery and a handful of flowers. Not so this time. Next month marks the 12th anniversary of Dad’s death. And the ninth anniversary of Mom’s. And the 1st anniversary I’ll …
I lifted the piece of plastic under the gutter drain and plucked a worm from the damp soil. I walked to the little girl at the end of my parents’ driveway, the gateway to 13 acres of beauty. She was visiting with her parents, the people buying the property that’s been in my family 45 …
I hiked up the hill of the pasture with a destination in mind. Nearly two decades earlier, I had taken the same route after losing the man I loved. He’d abandoned me for another woman. For as long as I remember, my parents’ pasture has been my go-to place when grieved or troubled. It was …
We wear internal labels like name tags on our chest. Mother. Daughter. Wife. Winner. Loser. Lazy. Sick. Wealthy. Poor. Sinner. Saint. Do any of those labels sound familiar? They often come from external voices, from people we admire, or even people we don’t. But the loudest voice we hear is the one that comes from …
I call July “death month.” My parents died three years apart, both in July. I’ve been through lots of Julys now, and I’ve noticed three ways I’ve responded. I think they can help you, too.
He called me “doll.” He took me to see the Empire State Building when I was 16. He introduced me to art at the Peabody Museum at Yale. Years later, lying in a hospital bed at a rehab hospital, he told me I was like a daughter to him. But I was his niece. He …
