Mj Pettengill

Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

There wasn’t a better place for untanglin’ thoughts and bein’ amongst clouds.

We cannot heal what we are unwilling to look at or afraid to know.

We were not rich, but we were content, imperfect, and lovingly frayed around the edges.

Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

I admired the courage of the wayward girl, the one who left snow angels in our winter garden.

May we always care about the truth. And may we not allow fear to lead the way.

...bringing me home to Cold River.

After all, we did not have a playbook so, we made up the rules as we went along.

“I am with child.” My temples pounded. All strength was gone.

Unlike the traditional auction, the pauper was sold to the lowest bidder.

I had never played for such a vast and diverse audience—on both sides of the fence—it mattered not that they were, in fact, dead.

It is unnecessary to wait for what we perceive as the perfect opportunity or the right conditions.

We tend to go with the flow but have no idea where the river leads.

She said that only very special people had a monocle curl and that they saw things differently.

Imagine sitting in the middle of a field of anonymous graves with nothing to go on but intuition.

The trees help old souls reach out to me, begging for their stories to be told. Until that time, it is they who need consoling.

I stood and watched until Death’s cart was out of sight. I was not afraid. I could not say what I felt, but it was not fear.

Remembering a barn and entering it is to remember my heart and enter my soul. I am confident that a wide assortment of thoughts and ideas...

What did it mean to win or lose?