Eight months have gone by since I sent my last tinyletter. Eight months since I held tight to my identity as a writer, to my determination to write, my pledge to myself. Two months after I sent the last one, my mom went to the hospital. Three months after, she was gone. For months after that, I did little more than wonder why and how I could exist, and be anchored in the world -- without a mother.
that was fast.
that was fast.
that was fast.
Eight months have gone by since I sent my last tinyletter. Eight months since I held tight to my identity as a writer, to my determination to write, my pledge to myself. Two months after I sent the last one, my mom went to the hospital. Three months after, she was gone. For months after that, I did little more than wonder why and how I could exist, and be anchored in the world -- without a mother.