Writer
Just got back from a long-overdue walk through the ancestral fields, a small farm atop a hill a few miles from where we now live, the place my dad grew up in. First port of call at home: the bathroom, to wash a great splat of bird poop out of my hair. Thanks, Dad! More …
I’ve been putting this off – too personal, too close. Then again, I committed to Real & True when I started this blog: uncensored, straight from the heart. So, this is about life without Mum, about grieving, and about the concept of home. Grieving is such a weird process. The poet John Roedel likens it …
Gitta Wolf 