Where Dreams Meet the Business of Writing

Today’s post is written to a weekly prompt from Tuesday Tales, ‘rough’. Previous posts have taken place in 1934 Iowa, in Calico Connections. However, since I’m now in the middle of another fiction for a contest submittal (I only need another 30,000 words in the next two weeks!), I don’t want to re-enter my Iowa make believe world yet. Here is my entry for the week in the memoir genre, for possible inclusion in another WIP, Planting Carrots. We’ll see.

Thanks for stopping by. Return to Tuesday Tales for more wondrous words from a wide range of talented authors.


DSC00201He entered my life late, he left it too soon, this third son of mine. He came into my life the easy way; already potty-trained, already driving. His leaving … not so easy.

People say that losing a child is one of the worst things to happen to a parent. They say it is difficult. They say it is rough. If you haven’t been there, you have no idea. You can’t imagine how this tragedy will affect your life in all aspects. Two friends lost children, years before I lost my stepson, Mark Gloyd. I did not fully understand the depth of their pain. I didn’t know the void left in their life. I could empathize with them.  I could cry with them. I couldn’t fully know the feelings and emotions a child’s death evoked.

December 27, 2005, two days after a joyless Christmas, I entered their world – a world consisting of bereaved parents in various stages of grief, denial, pain and recovery. I did not want to join their club. I held no sway with the nomination process. I had no say in the outcome.

Mark was one month past his 23rd birthday.

My sole consolation was that I was there for him at the end of his losing battle with cancer. I held his hand and stroked his brow. His mother sat on his other side. His father hovered around us all, encompassed in an enveloping grief and sorrow that permeated the room. I was there as he drew his last breath, as I was not when he drew his first.

So what do we do as writers? We write. We write about our life. Our world and experiences are transcribed into words. We write on paper; tablets, napkins, parchment, standard bond. We type on computers; click-clack-click-clack, keystrokes slowly etching our memories onto hard drives and flash drives.

We write. We journey through our souls. We heal. We honor. The memories of our loved ones become engraved in time, their footsteps on this earth memorialized by our words. Because that’s what we writers do. We write.

They watch over our shoulders. Smiling. They know they are loved. They know we remember.

RIP Mark Gloyd, my third son.
November 25, 1981 – December 27, 2004


  1. We write to honor, to remember, to deal with the depth of loss of our children, to help others understand a small slice of something that truly cannot be understood unless you have stepped to the other side of the fence and are a part of the “world consisting of bereaved parents in various stages of grief, denial, pain and recovery.”

    I’m sorry for your loss.

  2. I am so sorry for your loss. I, too, lost a son, but as an infant. The loss never really goes away, but we move on, and sometimes, we write to deal with the depth of the loss.

    • So sorry to hear about your son Vicki. Yes, always still there, even though we keep on keepin on. Thankful for the memories, sadness for our loss, and yes, writing helps, both as a salve for our pain and as a tribute to those we lost. A co-worker lost her son several years ago, after a congenital illness. I’m trying to encourage her to write about her son and their journey.

  3. What; an incredibly moving tribute to Mark. So beautifully written, spare, but emotional. I’m so sorry for your loss and applaud the way you keep him living on with your words. Great post.

    • Thank you Jean. Every now and then an opportunity surfaces to be able to share Mark with others. Some days it seems like the right time. I imagine him looking over my shoulder as I type, knowing that we still think of him and love him. Thanks for your kind words.

  4. Simply beautiful. I could feel your love for him through this. I’m so sorry for your loss. This is a beautiful tribute.

    • Thank you Sarah. Not as painful now, the first year was not a fun year. As I grow with my writing, I want to honor his memories when I can.

  5. What a beautifully wonderful tribute to Mark.

    • Thank you Lindsay. I picture him laughing as he sees what I write, a little embarrassed as most guys are, yet secretly pleased. Thanks for stopping by.

  6. Thank you for sharing Mark with us. Beautifully done.

  7. I can’t imagine how loosing a son feels, thank you for sharing such a painful experince and I am sorry for your loss.

  8. This was so beautiful. You did such a wonderful job sharing Mark with us. I am so sorry for your loss. ((Hugs))

    • Thanks Tricia. Sharing him with others, when a chance presents itself, helps keep his memories alive. I feel like he knows when I can share my love for him with others.

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