My heart is broken for your grandmother and for all the other women who came before, and who have come after her. Thank you for telling her story when she was unable to tell it herself for so long.
I wish I had the precise words to express how your essay made me feel. I was moved by the beauty of your prose with the juxtaposition of the horror of the theme. I will be re-reading this several times today, and perhaps tomorrow. Maybe I will find the adequate words.
Read this in This One Will Hurt You, and it did. Hurts again reading it now. So much love to your grandmother, to you for telling this story with so much tenderness, and to all of us who sadly know the story all too well. I’ll just be crying into my coffee over here.
I havent even told you how, at age 91, she was hospitalized with a bad, bad, bad infection. Doctors said, "There's nothing we can do. Surgery will kill her, and so will the infection. Call the family in for goodbyes."
She was going out, Ally. See ya, wouldnt want to be ya. Graveyard dead, as my dad would say. Get your suit ready for the funeral.
Except she walked out of the damn hospital a week later. She said she wasn't ready yet cause she still had shit to do. <3
I love your grandma. I couldn’t share your essay yesterday because I was so overcome, I just sat here in my den with no words, and tears streaming down my face on her behalf. But I just shared it now. You’re a good grandson. You did her proud my god.
I dreamt when I was young about a wolf under my bed. Time and time again. We women have so many metaphors for what has been done to us. Thank you for telling your grandmother's story with such beauty and grace.
I'm all messed up now. And this is why we tell stories. To give us space to feel things we don't know how to feel. To process the dissonance between what we think we know about life and what life teaches us. What a strong woman. A storyteller and survivor.
Thank you, Paul. I have to say how lucky you were that you had a grandmother who told those stories to you. My grands? Very short on memories. Made me wonder how much they were hiding or dissociating from. xo
I was that way with one of my grandmothers. Her life was the one I wanted to know about. When I asked her what her childhood was like, her only answer was, "We worked." That's what she did her whole life. Too many secrets. And those secrets weren't good for her mental health. She was my favorite person in the whole world. I think of her every day. xo
This is a stunning essay, in both senses of the word - powerful, beautiful, and made me feel as though something heavy and hard had dropped on my head.
Damn, this piece is good, rife with metaphors, with heartache and strength. Your grandma was a strong woman. I ache for her and for the woman stirring the soap and for the voice in the dark and for the bear who knew only to feel compelled to drag her off and devour her and for all the women stirring soap and longing and all the voices in the dark and all the bears who've learned to be devourers.
My heart is broken for your grandmother and for all the other women who came before, and who have come after her. Thank you for telling her story when she was unable to tell it herself for so long.
I wish I had the precise words to express how your essay made me feel. I was moved by the beauty of your prose with the juxtaposition of the horror of the theme. I will be re-reading this several times today, and perhaps tomorrow. Maybe I will find the adequate words.
Your words were perfect, and I appreciate them greatly.
Read this in This One Will Hurt You, and it did. Hurts again reading it now. So much love to your grandmother, to you for telling this story with so much tenderness, and to all of us who sadly know the story all too well. I’ll just be crying into my coffee over here.
I havent even told you how, at age 91, she was hospitalized with a bad, bad, bad infection. Doctors said, "There's nothing we can do. Surgery will kill her, and so will the infection. Call the family in for goodbyes."
She was going out, Ally. See ya, wouldnt want to be ya. Graveyard dead, as my dad would say. Get your suit ready for the funeral.
Except she walked out of the damn hospital a week later. She said she wasn't ready yet cause she still had shit to do. <3
I love your grandma. I couldn’t share your essay yesterday because I was so overcome, I just sat here in my den with no words, and tears streaming down my face on her behalf. But I just shared it now. You’re a good grandson. You did her proud my god.
I am doing this now <3
The world has not changed for women.
Exactly. Not a whit. Just getting worse every day.
I dreamt when I was young about a wolf under my bed. Time and time again. We women have so many metaphors for what has been done to us. Thank you for telling your grandmother's story with such beauty and grace.
I tell her story because there are so many metaphors <3
I was married before I stopped looking under the bed every single night.
I'm all messed up now. And this is why we tell stories. To give us space to feel things we don't know how to feel. To process the dissonance between what we think we know about life and what life teaches us. What a strong woman. A storyteller and survivor.
"To give us space to feel things we don't know how to feel." That's beautifully said. I may steal this <3
Me too. That's really good.
I hope you will
This broke my heart.
What a powerful and haunting tale, told with respect and empathy for your grandmother's wholeness.
You’ve left me speechless.
The moon hung like a fingernail…. Wow such beauty in your words. Thank you
Probably shouldn't tell you this, but I really like that line....so much that I've probably used it more than once. Thanks for reading <3
Secrets safe with me.
Appeciate it <3
Absolutely haunting. But necessary.
Thank you, Paul. I have to say how lucky you were that you had a grandmother who told those stories to you. My grands? Very short on memories. Made me wonder how much they were hiding or dissociating from. xo
Mine were actually similar in not discussing memories. But she wanted this story told, and I do what she wants <3
I was that way with one of my grandmothers. Her life was the one I wanted to know about. When I asked her what her childhood was like, her only answer was, "We worked." That's what she did her whole life. Too many secrets. And those secrets weren't good for her mental health. She was my favorite person in the whole world. I think of her every day. xo
This is a stunning essay, in both senses of the word - powerful, beautiful, and made me feel as though something heavy and hard had dropped on my head.
It makes me feel like I’ve been dropped on my head.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I really appreciate it. <3
Whoa. And wow. So gorgeously heartbreaking. 💜💔
Damn, this piece is good, rife with metaphors, with heartache and strength. Your grandma was a strong woman. I ache for her and for the woman stirring the soap and for the voice in the dark and for the bear who knew only to feel compelled to drag her off and devour her and for all the women stirring soap and longing and all the voices in the dark and all the bears who've learned to be devourers.
Thanks so much for reading--there's a companion piece to this, in which I tell the story behind the story behind the story.
What a tender, aching metaphor, beautifully told. Thank you for sharing this with us, Paul.
Really appreciate the opportunity to share it, and the amplification. Thank you very much!