And the baze continues...

The crowded stand-still highway led me into work today. I arrived, finally, my pulse didn’t even raise. Those things don’t matter anymore.

Swarming like bees the todos gathered in a hazy cluster. Fogging my vision, my head, and clouding my heart. It followed me. I guess it always does. In an out of that foggy cloud, the urgency, the importance, the hurried pace, the satisfaction of crossing things off the list in dark inky pen. Scanning the list, listen to the haze, scan again, repeat until I feel satisfied.

I create more haze on the way home.

The female voice begins on the audio book, a story of sisterhood and slavery, the park to my left aligns my drive and a woman is particularly peppy in her workout; almost dancing down the trail. The haze breaks and I smile, I look back again and the smile is gone, I am jealous of her. A home for sale, a brown worn fence lined yard, the house that was there this morning down in rubble. I have nothing planned for dinner. Did I pay the daycare?  The details and non-detail of it all, with no meaning really.  

Looking at my phone, listening to the haze, looking again, repeating over and over. I have no idea what I am looking for.  Glancing over to the fridge, the obituary; and I step out of my haze, “Joseph Nardello passed away peacefully…” Why the fuck did I write peacefully?

It wasn’t peaceful. It was bullshit. And the haze lifts and I can see clearly. I hear my brother, “I just want our life back to the way it was before.” My sister, “I just feel like I am alone.” I hear my thoughts for the first time, all day. I should have written passed away suddenly, ripped from our lives... anything but that, anything peacefully.  Who was I kidding?

 And the haze continues.

Fuck Moving On

I think it's best with this empty heart of mine that I move on.

Moving on, with a restless heart and a restless mind.

I'm moving on...


Today I won't cry, I won't let the tears fall down

Today I won't calm my thoughts and my mind,

because that truly means that you both are gone.

but sure, I'm moving on...


But, I ain't gonna listen to that it'll get easier talk.

I don't wanna hear that no more.

and I ain't gonna tell you that i'm doing fine,

I'm better off just silencing that.


I'll take this empty heart and fill it,

though I still can't fill it with you.

Sometimes it aches inside like a pit inside my heart,

but it's better than the empty that's there.


But still I find that it's gonna define me either way I try.

So forget moving on.

3 Little Birds Sit on my Shoulder...

Three little birds sit on my shoulder.

I catch them looking back at me in my reflection.

Sometimes I forget they are there.

Around them weave waves of blue water, crystal blue like both of your eyes.

A large sea-shell lies in between them, bold yet fragile as you were.

I carry it on my back.

They crash into one another the waves, the birds, the shell, to me they have always been one.

“Avery, what is mommy’s tattoo?” I ask my nearly two blond haired boy.

“Mom-mom, pop-pop angels.” He says proudly.

“That’s right baby.”

“Pretty,” he says exaggerating the two syllables.

I hear your voice when you first saw Caleb’s music noted arm.

“That doesn't impress me,” you said in that way you do, Philly strong.

I hear your voice and I smile out loud.

“Well too bad,” I say with a smile with my inner voice.

It allows me to tell your story in a different light.

It’s a mentor, a part of me, a beautiful sad love story.

“and we’ll share tomorrow together.”

I taught your  fun little grand-baby the lyrics the other day,

he especially loves to wail tomorrow, putting his hands in the air.

Until tomorrow my mentors. 

Until tomorrow, but there is still so much good to come.

You know, your with us.

“Why hello, what would you like to feel today?

“Why hello, what would you like to feel today? She asks.

“Today…,” I pause to think.

Most days she chooses for me so I am struck.

“You mean I get to pick? I ask with childish wonder.

She moves her hands to my shoulder, the pressure builds.

I hold my breath, but remember that’s exactly what she’s reminded me not to do.

 “Like I said, what do you want to feel today? She says calmly, her tone irritating me.

I raise my eyebrow and glare at her; I am my thirteen year old self.

“What options do I have? I ask my tone increasingly tense and irritated.

“You my dear, you have the power to choose.” She replies like a soft flute melody.

She is calm, centered and meditating slightly even during our conversation.

She whispers, “What would you like to feel today?”

The serenity of her voice is just beyond my reach. 

I shift into her melody, if only for a brief second and am surrounded by positive energy.

“I do want to be in that space,” I utter with a tear falling down my cheek.

“Then be that space,” she whispers and disappears like a figment of my imagination. 

I am not the person I used to be.

I don't have a name. I don't know what to do. I am not the person I used to be...
I used to be Dana with a mom who was bold, selfless and strong.
Who was always there and who I sought to make proud without everyday.
Summers at the shore, airport pick ups filled with smiles, the joy she shared over my son.
I used to be Dana with a dad who was the most generous dreamer.
Who was always there when I landed with a smile, fidgeting his hands and telling stories.
When it was a simply task to quiet my mind and be with myself.
We used to be the Nardello’s
We used to be a family, under the willow tree at Ridgefield Road with and Italian market.
Memories of days at St Albans swim club, baseball games, crabs and spaghetti, water ice and the cousins playing on the beach sand.
I grew to be Dana.
Driven and unstoppable, who found love and started a family in the Rockies.
Who prided herself on visiting home as often as possible and not losing her east coast roots.
I used to be Dana
Now I am someone who lost both her parents in a year, an adult orphan?
I used to be Dana
Now I am anxious energy, the inability to handle solitude without fidgeting and filling the silence.
Now I am unsatisfied, always feeling I am not doing enough and what I am doing isn’t worth it.
Now I am haunted, images of dad alone in his bed, moms deep hollow breathes.
I am not Dana, yet
I am not sure who I will become.
Waiting. Waiting on a miracle, waiting to wake up, waiting for you to return to us.
Most days I am still waiting and now I am not sure for what.

Haunted and heartbroken without you

I still wake up with nightmares. 

I am haunted of who you were when you couldn't be yourself. 

You wanted to say, "this is not me," 
I wanted to believe it and still do. 

But that version of you, that's what really lingers. 

I want to remember the days when you boldly carved your path,
when you did more than fight to be with those you love.
I want to forget how helpless you felt,
abruptly shifting into moments of reality and fading away fast. 
I want to remember the ocean clarity of your big blue eyes,
when hopefulness and strength shined through rather than pain.
I want to remember when you looked and felt beautiful,
when your blond hair framed your face. 
I want to remember your big smile,
the loud belly laugh you shared in unison with your sisters. 

Though you slipped away from us into other loving arms,

"hey mom, how did you get away from daddy?" 
Your daddy, and ours too were whispering in your ear. 
"Your dad is making this happen faster, but it's easier for him."

I know they were at the edge of your bed,
but so were we. 
Waiting.  Waiting on a miracle, waiting to wake up, waiting for you to return to us.
Most days I am still waiting and now I am not sure for what. 

I wish I could say that dreaming of you made me feel you near. 

The nightmares, a joyous celebration of your life.

But, I can't yet find joy in your memory. You were my life. 

Maybe I am not ready to celebrate.

I don't have it in me to dance. 

Images of people showing they cared through song and dance. 

I watched from the sidelines, scared, lonely, unable to move on. 

I wanted to hear your confident tone.

Maybe I am not ready to listen. 

I don't have it in me to trust my own voice.