When everything was gone,

there’s was kindness.

When she was finally stripped of her mind,

she found simple joy in the ones that loved her.

She forgot so many things,

but not the ones that saw her for her heart.

Even after everything was taken away,

she still wanted to do for others.

She wanted to make the people smile,

that made her smile.

Her love was nothing if not loyal.

I’m not going to lament my regrets,

as there are many.

I hope that I gave her some peace.

I hope I showed her that being loved,

should cost her nothing.

Some people face such great loss and are dealt such bad hands,

that they deserve respite.

There is sadness with their memory,

but there is such kindness,

kindness that knows no limit.

Sometimes the beauty of someone’s soul,

lives on far past their natural life.

There’s so much more I want to say,

perhaps another time.

For now, I’ll just say

Rest in peace, Ashley.

We are all thinking of you.

Thank you for your kindness.

Thank you for your friendship.

I wrote The Beautiful Scar last year, after her death on June 28th, 2025. Today is one year since she died. It is difficult to describe the person and her life, but I always thought this picture of her captured everything that anyone would need to know about her.

He soaks them in vinegar and are quite tasty. As soon as you open the jar, your eyes and nose sting

They taste really good, and would be phenomenal finely diced in any pasta or rice dish, soup, etc.

These are 7 Pot Brain Strain and they originate from Trinidad.

Here’s a link to some info on them.

7 Pot Pepper Strains

The call came in an early morning haze.

She sat up and was wide awake as I stirred.

I pleaded “What’s happening?” with no response.

She was conscious but frozen,

something I’d never witnessed in the 7 or 8 years with her.

The “What are you talking about?” started,

from her.

Again, asked in a way where the words came out,

but no one was present.

Over and over and over she asked.

Then came the shrieking,

like an exorcism.

Her daughter went missing in a desert flash flood the night before.

On the other end of the country.

The car was found,

minus a body.

I held her.

I could literally feel her soul break.

We held out hope,

as people often do with these things.

My first thought: she’s never going to get to heal the rift with her daughter.

We flew out to Arizona.

Massive search,

as the flash flood was massive.

Four days later they would find her body.

Strained through trees and bushes and branches,

there was no hope of an open casket.

The screams and wails returned.

I still do not know to this day,

if she held out hope in her heart.

———

Ten days would pass as “they” decided they would wait to have the memorial.

Her mother would not be mentioned in the obituary or the eulogy.

The obituary would name the step-mom as the birth mother.

It would not mention that the father wanted an abortion.

It would not mention that he would repeatedly

beat the actual mother to try to induce an abortion.

It would not mention that they repeatedly

violated custody rights,

denying the mom visitation.

It would not mention poisoning the kids minds.

Telling them that their mom and grandparents

did not want to see them.

The family of the step-mother said that the

actual mother had “no right to mourn”, and

that she was “just an incubator”.

The abuse that broke the mother long before,

was on full display.

Some women never recover fully from abuse.

———

At the funeral, we were directed upstairs.

Surrounded by cops that were friends of the family,

as if we were going to start some thing.

I felt her powerlessness fully.

I felt the abuse.

I felt what robbed her of her motherhood.

I felt what broke one of the purest kind people

I’ve ever known.

She wailed.

That scream.

That shrieking.

From the that top balcony.

Her best friend on one side,

me on the other,

we held her.

She squeezed us with every wail,

as if she was grabbing on to keep from falling.

I’ve never heard anything like it.

From depths of despair.

All the pain.

All the loss.

All the regret over what could no longer be

mended.

Surrounded by my three oldest friends,

and her best friend,

we gave her a space of love and caring as much

as could be given at a time like this.

We were there for a woman who lost her

daughter after just 16 years.

I supported her the only way I knew how.

I’d sit there in bed while she wailed.

I’d sit on the floor of the kitchen,

as she was curled up.

Sometimes all I could do was set a hand on her.

She had severe, intractable epilepsy that would eventually take her life.

Something changed in her when her daughter died.

Her responses were a touch more delayed,

as if she was checked out.

Not all the time,

but it became immediately more common.

———

Faith Marie Moore was her daughter’s name.

Faith was my shot at being a step-father.

I have the pictures to prove it.

I have the smiles that let me know.

I have the phone calls and the texts between us.

She thought I was a magically cool guy.

She’d never seen her mother so happy.

It was not to be.

I did everything I could,

but I was blocked at every turn.

It was just myself and Faith and her hopeful but broken mother that wanted it.

It was not enough.

I was the only one advocating for a broken woman,

from a broken family.

It is one of my greatest defeats.

———

Faith died on July 24th, 2021 at the age of 16.

Her body was found on July 28th, 2021.

Amber, her mother, would die exactly 4 years later on July 28th, 2025.

They are together now,

with not an atom of space between them.

Nothing to stop them from being the mother and daughter that they always wanted to be.

I know it.

The Beautiful Scar is about Amber.

I don’t know if I will write more about her.

She certainly deserves many words.

———

I have to thank my girlfriend for being so solid.

For allowing me the space to grieve a friend,

that just happened to be an ex-girlfriend.

For allowing me to grieve a daughter that was destined to never be mine.

Without jealousy,

and with deep love for me,

and reverence for all that’s good and true,

she has supported me without fail.

I could not have dreamed up a better woman.

Faith and her son have the same birthday.

Her father and my mother have the same birthday.

Something very special was given to us.

We have not wasted a drop of that gift.

Perhaps it was a moment,

maybe it was a silent crescendo,

made of threads of curiosity and wanting.

I’ve traveled mostly alone,

but not always.

Sometimes I’ve had the company of others,

not meant to share the way forward forever,

but for a time nonetheless.

Alone or together,

I still moved and moved.

Sometimes I’d rest,

maybe stare into the foggy windows of others along the path,

warm in their place.

Again came a time,

a collection of moments perhaps,

as it couldn’t have been a moment.

Nothing this profound could be traced to that fine a detail.

There she was,

weary from her own travels.

Yet she seemed to be content to stop here,

purposeful in her respite.

She invited me to stop,

to rest for a bit.

But my feet were still moving,

just like always.

My momentum kept going,

one foot in front of the other.

On I went.

Yet something was missing this time.

Where was my heart?

Where was my soul?

My walk was empty.

A veil of assurance fell over me though:

I had to go back.

Perhaps a spell was cast on me by her,

that one star on my path.

She was still there,

holding my heart with a gentle smile,

warming it for me.

She was waiting as if she knew I’d come back,

as sure as the sun rises and sets.

She is not company.

She is not a companion.

She is my home.

She is my final rest.

I am her place,

where she is contented and safe.

Every path was leading to her.

She was always there,

in that place,

tending carefully to all the parts of me that mattered,

from before I started whatever this is.

I dreamed she was there,

then the push of life startled me awake

I felt like I could touch her,

then the chill of life reminded me of itself, with shivers all over

I thought I saw her,

then the rushing river of life swept me along

I thought I could hear her,

then the disquiet of life washed-out her voice

I thought I caught a scent of her sweetness,

then the fog of life made it disappear behind a veil

I felt like I kissed her gently,

but I was left with dry lips

I felt like I kissed her hard,

but there was nothing there, so I stumbled forward

—

Then

One day

I met her

I drifted back to sleep

I went back to dream

She makes sure we stay there

As life swirls around me,

it pushes and pulls

I hasn’t woken me up yet

I don’t think it will this time

She shouted out on a day.
Just a day.
Her words echoed inside me with warmth.
That subtle warmth sparked a fire in me.
She reached out on a day.
Just a day.
Her words touched me with electricity.
That touch sparked a rebellion in me.
A rebellion against fear.
A march through the corridors of my past,
to find where I could have met her before.
Could I have missed her?
A conquest of my dreams,
to hold her silhouette up to the light of hope
Could she be the piece?
When I stopped my hunt,
she was there.
She had never come to me.
She had never passed me by.
She had never been waiting.
She had always been there.
She had always been for me.
She had always been closer to me than my own hands.
I felt as if I knew her heart.
She showed it to me,
and it removed all doubt.
She felt as if she knew my heart.
I showed it to her,
and she jumped back,
because it removed all doubt.
We are here now,
as we have always been.
Our paths crashed together,
but we always were us.
The paths were the journeys,
back to ourselves.
Back to each other.
Back to where we belonged.
Together.
Today.
Just another day.

The remnants always come back.

The remnants of being unloved.

The remnants of being cast aside.

The remnants of not understanding love.

The remnants of defense,

of hurt,

of hiding,

of running.

The remnants stay with us like a shadow,

always cast.

They follow and dance like ghosts,

always haunting.

If I sleep on them,

they paint a picture for my heart.

It’s a false picture,

not unlike the false image my eyes see in a mirror..

Not unlike that image in the mirror,

the remnants show me what they think I deserve.

Racing towards our place,

a place that shows me the love we do deserve.

Love makes me forget the remnants are there,

always carefree.

Love makes the remnants scatter,

always peace.

Time ticks.

Don’t just leave remnants.

Don’t let them speak for you.

Make roots of love,

always reinforcing.

Make echoes of love,

always traveling.

Send waves everyday that whisper:

“Love was our shelter this day,

while the remnants lay sleeping”.

I think I’d be a horrible motivational speaker. “Find the things and people that you hate and that anger you and mix that with all your resentments and hatred of yourself and just use that to power you through life!”. Horrible advice.

The absolutely savage comment by

Shout outs to , , , ,

Wanted to take a little opportunity to tell part of my high school era story, as an unintentional prompt from and . Ginger's story is here and Duane's is here.

• What year did you graduate? Would have been 1989, but I never did. I should have been class of 1990, but my mom thought it a good idea to push me ahead, so I was always way younger than everyone, compounded by a December birthday. I started high school at 13. I dropped out partway through first semester of sophomore year, kind of not of my own choosing because I’d end up in juvy. I tried to go back to my original high school, Thunderbird, that I was supposed to go to, but that didn’t last long. Ended up in the parking lot everyday smoking and drinking. You can read here about some other great parenting tips that my mom and dad came up with! They took me away from my friends that I grew up with and grenaded any shot I had at completing high school. This made me rebel really fucking hard. I had friends that were a little older and also dropouts. I would go straight to their houses in the morning versus walking 2 miles to the city bus stop.

• Did you carpool? No lol. Walked to school since 1st grade. For brief stint in high school I was supposed to take city bus. Occasionally I’d have my dad take me if I wanted to get to school and sit there at 5-6am. Which I didn’t. I did carpool for religious school. My mom made me go to religious school after school, during grade school years. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I hated it. It took away after school playtime and any hope of wrestling and other school sports. It took away Saturday morning cartoons and play days. This made me rebel really fucking hard.

• What kind of car did you drive? First car was a 1978 Honda Civic. At 15. Bought it for $300 with paper route money and shitty fast food job money. I didn’t get a license until well out of high school. My parents said that I shouldn’t spend my money on a car. My parents insisted that I needed insurance. This made me rebel really fucking hard. I would drive it at night when they were asleep. Spent much time skateboarding. Eventually got a 1967 Volkswagen square back. Skateboard wheel for a shifter knob. Parents advised against getting the car. This would make me buy the car as hard as I could. Engine dropped and out of the vehicle within a week for repairs. This would begin my lifelong love of working on vehicles, fixing and repairing things, upgrading and creating things. My dad didn’t trust me to fix anything, nor did he teach me, because my dad couldn’t fix a dog if he took one to the vet. His tools were few and were quite fake and ghey. This all made me rebel really fucking hard, but in the best possible way.

• It’s Friday night football, were you there? Fuck no. I played JV water polo freshman year. My mom kept me out of sports because “All the coaches care about is winning”. My dad implicitly backed her up by not doing a thing. This made me rebel really fucking hard. My high school was full of absolute douchebags outside the punks. Had almost no friends there. I got in many fights. More importantly, I discovered that getting handjobs and banging cheerleaders and jock girls did not require me to go to games and be part of campus life.

• What kind of jobs did you have? Paper route when I was young. I worked at a fast food joint called Pioneer Chicken at 14. My childhood friend’s older brother worked there as a manager, he was probably 20. One day, one of the guys was like, “You’re working slow. In the employee bathroom, there’s a mirror with coke on it. Go do a line then get back here and work faster”. This made me think that I was on the right track with rebelling really fucking hard.

• Were you a party animal? This is a stupid fucking question at this point. Read here about how I spent weekends at desert parties

• Were you considered a jock? Never. Stoner then punk.

• Were you in the band? Nope. Zero musical talent. Used to hang with older friends in punk bands. Would get me into bars when I was 17, just carrying band equipment in back door.

• Were you a nerd? Actually yes. I’d stay in and read books and encyclopedias on Friday and Saturday nights sometimes. Spy books, action books, history books. My mom had me in gifted classes in grade school. This separated me from my friends. This made me rebel really fucking hard. By the time I got to high school, I was decently cool though. Always was in good with the teachers because no matter how bad I was, I could absorb anything they tried to teach me. I had one foot in every clique in school.

• Did you ever get suspended? This is another stupid question at this point. So much. First semester of sophomore year, I had something like 30 absences. Every teacher went to bat for me for some reason, so I didn’t get expelled.

• What was the worst thing you ever did? Normal bad shit? Grabbed a fire extinguisher, opened a classroom door, pulled the pin and let that fucker rip. Squared up with a kickball, and kicked that shit right into a teacher’s face, Mrs. Comensa. There’s a way to break a corner off of a plastic bread baggie, wedge on to fingertip and flick it. They will zing so hard you can sometimes hear them whistle. I did flicked one from a few rows back, into the eye of class president Jenny Hanson during assembly. Greg Sibold took the heat. Thanks bro, wherever you are. I honestly had no idea it would be that accurate of a shot. I would eventually commit enough actual crimes to spend 6ish months in juvy, time that would include my 16th birthday.

• Can you sing the fight song? What fight song? Ghey.

• What was your H.S. mascot? Sunnyslope Vikings. Was Thunderbird Chiefs at high school I was supposed to be at. Rival high school, Washington, came and got our 20ft tall viking and dumped it in the canal. That was nice.

• If you could go back and do it all again? Absolutely not.

• Are you still in contact with people from H.S.? No one that I didn’t know before or after high school. I was in contact with my english teacher, Mrs Noice. She showed me so much kindness. I’d go see her well into my 20’s. She eventually committed suicide. Her surviving husband was football and water polo coach at Thunderbird.

• Do you know where your high school crush is? Didn’t really have one. There was one girl that held me at arm’s length for a couple years. Teased basically. Alicia. But she was not from anywhere near my high school. She lived so fucking far out of town. This is the only time a girl’s father stuck a gun in my face. Shotgun. Fun. This made me question rebelling, really fucking hard.

• What was your favorite subject? Probably math, geometry and trig especially. I took Trig freshman year and aced every test and got all extra credit. In grade school, it was geography because of Mrs. MacDougall being hot. I did like 1st hour freshman english class in high school because of the teacher mentioned above. She’d let me crack jokes and such. There was a sophomore cheerleader girl that loved me from day one of freshman. She became the second girl that I’d ever had sex with. She’d sit on my lap before class started. Mrs. Noice didn’t care because she knew that girl was the only thing making me come to school. We’d ditch classes until lunch sometimes to go back to her and her mom’s apartment. Also, that high school’s math teacher, Mr. Farison, showed me great kindness. He would eventually become dean at original high school, Thunderbird, that I was supposed to go to. He tried so hard to get me to stay in school. Good dude

• What was a normal outfit for you? Jeans, skate and surf t-shirts, high tops.

• Do you still have your HS ring? Only ring I got in high school was around my dick from all the hand jobs.

Sometimes I forget my ghost is there

We frolic and play

We listen and we talk

We build and we bond

We touch and we hold

We pull on the tether to keep it taut

Then it appears

A ghost is here now

The light of our perfection fades to gray and black

The past becomes present

Dreams of our future evaporates

It grips my throat

It is a pit in my stomach

It is a weight on my heart

It is a dread in my bloodstream

I feel lost

The foundation cracks and we fall

It’s as if I’ve never been here before

Both our ghosts are here

All our ghosts are here

They hold sway now

I’m a passenger

She is a passenger

I’m scrambling for our tether

I’m scrambling for something to hold on to

I’m scrambling to find solid ground

There it is!

Some love frightened the ghost

Some care frightened another

Some kindness cast a light

A foothold

A handle of rock

I grab

She grabs

Our free hands clasped just as tightly as ever

We wipe the dust of our descent away

We are clean now

We are bright now

But the ghosts can never be cleansed

They were never meant to be cleansed

They are a part of us

As we live and breathe, we must carry them

As we change, they change with us

But as we love on, as we love hard, we remember their faces a little more each time

So that the next time we recognize their apparitions

So that the next time we see them approaching

So that the next time, I can protect her

So the next time, she can protect me

So the next time, we don’t have to feel their weight

So the next time, maybe, we never have to witness them

I get a little harsh. A lot of it is directed at myself and me being hard on myself.

My best friend’s mom just died after a long bout with dual lung pneumonia. She had cancer that came back. She was a long time smoker and never really exercised outside of wading in her pool. Overweight. I loved her so much. Second mother. Now she’s gone way too young after her husband was gone at 55. Now my best friend has a kid. He still vapes and drinks. Been telling him for a year to stop vaping because he has two parents that died of lung cancer, dad having lung and liver cancer. His choice, but selfish af because he has a daughter. He’s started to workout for first time in his life, so he’s starting on a better path. I’m harsh on my male friends with kids. Grow up, your life is not about you for a couple decades. And beyond.

Second note. If you’re having health problems, it’s not the beginning of the end. It’s your body talking to you, or even yelling. Your body is not making cryptic messages. Your body is clearly telling you things.

Anyway, ya’ll stay up and enjoy the rant.

Like a trickle of water that runs downhill,

the path of least resistance leads to dark corners.

This natural course gently traces its way past ramparts of self-defense,

unnoticed.

To my hopes,

it is a meandering stream.

But to my fears,

it is a violent flood that carves chasms on its way to the darkness.

A flood that hollows out my life to unearth things.

The shores of the aftermath littered with broken pieces of regret,

the flotsam of resentment here,

the jetsam of lost time there.

I am forced to march through the cemented relics of what once was,

and the barren stretches of what could have been.

With a slow and drenched climb back out of the shadowy, winding canyons,

those dark corners fade.

The light of a future quietly returns.

The warmth of hope gently returns.