In early 2019, I saw a call for submissions for an anthology about grief. That, I thought, was right up my alley. I reached out to the editor, Maya Stein, and eventually submitted a couple pieces for consideration. After much hard work on Maya's part, Grief Becomes You is now a beautiful testament to grief and loss in book form. Through compiled poems, essays, and photographs, our many narratives and experiences of grief are explored. You can learn more about the Grief Becomes You project here and you can purchase a copy (both digital and print copies are available) here.
I'm pleased to have a flash nonfiction piece, Ischemia, published in Issue #93 March/April 2019 of Hippocampus. It delves into widowhood, cold water, and the fickleness of the circulatory system.
I'm pleased to have my poem, "Adirondack Upland Flora" published as SWWIM's poem of the day today. You can read the poem here.
My latest essay, a bit of a love story about the marsh behind my old house, was published today on Catapult. This one was a challenging piece to write, but I'm so glad to have it out in the world. Even though I recently moved, that marsh will forever be part of my life and my memories.
I'm pleased to have another essay published with the Washington Post's On Parenting section, this one a letter to my dead husband juxtaposed with the building of a new family.
This is an emotional time, with Father's Day fast approaching, as well as the birth of my second daughter right around the corner. You can read "Dear Dead Husband" here.
Did you miss your chance to pre-order MAINE knits? Good news, it's now available for purchase over at Thread & Ladle. I'm so pleased to have an essay in this absolutely stunning book of Maine sea, farm, and wild inspired knitting patterns. It makes a lovely gift for your favorite knitter in your life (or yourself) and is truly a beautiful piece of art.
My prose poem, "Snow," is the first installment of Entropy's "On Weather" series, and is up today. I wrote this poem over the course of two winters, when Steve's death was looming but not yet certain, and things were challenging but not yet nearing the end. Meditations on the natural world (and even just my own backyard) frequently show up in my journals and writing and are a source of exploration for me.
Nearly 12 years ago, I joined a backcountry trail crew for the summer. It changed the entire trajectory of my life.
This is the story of that summer, up on the Bangor Daily News today.
Thank you for reading.
lIt makes my heart immensely full that my most recent essay, A Geography of Grief, was published by Hippocampus today. I wrote this essay perched on the edge of the old bed, my computer on resting on a dresser, while the fog pushed its way through the window screen. I felt so compelled to write this piece at that exact moment in time, unlike any other essay I've ever written. Something about the juxtaposition of the difficulty of the time, the love I have for that island, and the sorrow and bliss that pervaded that afternoon.
It's remarkable to think that nearly 14 months has passed since I sat in my grandmother's house and typed through the beauty and the grief of that trip. A lot of time has passed, a lot of things have changed. Shortly after we returned, I went through all of his clothes and belongings, and the baby things are long gone: sold, donated, given away. Those size 13 work boots, however, are still exactly where they were 14 months ago, laces askew on the basement floor.
In time, I tell myself. In time.
Sarah Kilch Gaffney lives and writes on a little piece of land in Maine.