This took my breath. The violets, the wound, the resentment, the rueful honesty—every line was alive with ache. “It made its own terrible weather.” That stayed with me.

I’m Kelly, a writer and slow traveler. Thank you for your service. For showing us the impossibility of being everything, and the grace that grows in spite of it.

I would read your book in a heartbeat. Please write it. In the meantime, I shared something about remembering who we are and what blooms in us, even after loss:

substack.com/@thebentha…

Sending deep respect and hope to cross paths again in your words.