The notes and sketches were without exception more interesting than the final product.

Stopped by the Hudson River overlook where we used to take the girls on the way to New England. Headed into the snack bar set back from the cliffs. Asked the kid at the counter about the “Free beer tomorrow” sign we always joked about. “Oh, we can’t serve alcohol here,” he said. “We get all the jumpers now the bridges are closed off.” I took my coffee outside, but couldn’t bring myself to look down. You moved on long ago. I’m still falling.

Sick with worry, half-mad with hope. Talking to an empty room. Help is on its way.

Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street? Can we go back together, one of you still holding my hand, the other on my shoulder, vanishing around an invisible corner, down a leafy suburban street? I am weeping as I type this. You were Snuffy and I was the Count. The sky was a blue that no longer exists. I want my blue back.

Decades later, encouraged by a friend to obtain his old psychiatric reports, he was mortified to read what he had perceived to be a courageous hero’s journey described as the petulant dithering of a timid neurotic.

Two and a half drinks in, trying to build a fire the way his father did, cursing, hating himself.

Driving back, you remember the hopeful innocent you were just a week ago, still on your way. 

Each meme a chunk of life replaced by an x/y coordinate, gone forever.

The collection exclusively featured images of mayhem and disaster.

Through all our grief and sadness, we hadn’t yet learned to be without hope. Clearly that was necessary.