Downstairs, the boys gaze at a screen on the old futon in the playroom. We will figure out what to do about them soon enough. They probably already know what’s up and are waiting for us to figure out how to say it. Their very existence is the one dark piece I cannot get right within all this. I can let go of a lot of things: plans, friends, career goals, places in the world I want to see, maybe even the love of my life. But I cannot figure out how to let go of mothering them.
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Nina Riggs
Poet and essayist
United States · 1977–2017
Arts and letters
About
American poet from Greensboro, North Carolina, diagnosed with breast cancer at thirty-seven and told a year later that it had spread to her spine and was incurable. She finished her memoir The Bright Hour a month before she died at thirty-nine.
4 answers
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