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Grief is Sticky

The poet finds his departed mother on the breeze. I want mine next to me in line at Trader Joe’s. I guess that’s why I’m not a poet.

Robin Finn
Sleepless in the San Fernando Valley
5 min readSep 6, 2024

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Writing prompt: Something sticky

Grief is sticky. It sticks to my shoe and even when I rub the bottom of my white sneaker in the grass, moving it back and forth over the blades and hoping to rub off some of the remnants, I can’t get it off. Grief sticks worse than Trident or Big Red or even Bazooka.

Grief is like a bandage around the stomach after an appendectomy or a hernia repair. It itches and chafes and irritates but you can’t remove it. When I had a hernia repair, after my first baby was born, my mother came from Florida to stay with me. I remember how she made me beautiful lunches — curry egg salad over a bed of lettuce. While I ate, she held the baby and cooed to her and rocked her and kvelled over her gorgeous newness and her tiny fingers and toes. My mother poured her love all over this new grandchild from every pore of her being. I sat at my cherry wood dining table and ate homemade curry egg salad.

I remember the fork in my hand and the bright yellow of the curried egg and the sounds of my mother humming to the baby — such joy for my mom and such comfort for me to have her there. Even though I was a mother, as…

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Sleepless in the San Fernando Valley
Sleepless in the San Fernando Valley

Published in Sleepless in the San Fernando Valley

By Robin Finn — She’s sweaty. She has to pee. She’s got 3 young adults. No wonder she can’t sleep.(Photo: Steven Pahel/Unsplash)

Robin Finn
Robin Finn

Written by Robin Finn

Author & founder of Heart. Soul. Pen.® for women writers & novel: Restless in L.A. Essayist: @NYTimes @WashPo @LATimes. Narrative alchemist. www.robinfinn.com

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