He writes things that he would never say in person. Not that they're intimate things. They're not. They're brief statements that come right to the point.
But his written words are different from his spoken ones. He writes from a place he seems to go to only in print, a room he has kept under lock and key for so long that it's only with pen in hand or with a keyboard in front of him that he can enter.
Read MoreTheir images come to me by day and by night. I'll look in the mirror and see not me in the deep plum dress that I will wear at my daughter's wedding, but my own mother in the teal blue dress that she wore at mine. Sometimes I see the three of them: my mother, my aunt and my mother-in-law. My own holy trinity. They were the three women who loved me and mothered me and were there for me, one or the other, or all of them together, for too short a while a very long time ago…
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