sea salt

This weekend we helped Kevin's parents unpack their storage unit. It was filled to the top, boxes and furniture that once filled a 4-bedroom house with two young children. Now that they've downsized to a much smaller condo, it was time to finally empty out the things they'd amassed throughout their life as newlyweds, young parents, empty-nesters. I was eager to help - I pride myself on being ruthless when it comes to getting rid of old stuff, realistically assessing if I'll ever wear that sweater ever again, feeling secure enough to move on and leave some of the past behind. I implored Kevin's parents to get rid of a small orange tent they've had for 35 years - the tent they used on their cross-country honeymoon trip. "I've known your family for 5 years and you've been camping approximately 0 times," I said. "I know, but what if our grandchildren want to go camping?" "Like we'd ever let our kids go camping in a 35...

Note: I wrote this draft on July 17, and emailed Jodi to ask if it was ok to use this beautiful picture of her. I did not hear back from her before receiving the news that she died on August 2. Instead of revising this post to reflect on her death, I've chosen to post the original, which reflects on her life. * A few months before I began my MFA program at Lesley University, I received instructions to read the first essay submissions of the writers who would be in my first workshop. I had been accepted for the nonfiction writing track, so everything I read was a personal essay. Everything was true. As the submissions came in and I began reading and editing, I realized I was an outlier. With the exception of one other writer, I was the only one who hadn't written about being abused in some way. The essays shocked me, saddened me, and made me feel strangely guilty that I'd grown up with loving, protective parents and relatives who would never dream of hurting me...