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Featured Blog Post
Before my mother died, I sent her an essay that I had written about the beginning of her rare degenerative disease. She had been, at various times in her life, a singer, a painter, an actor, a playwright, so I thought she would appreciate it, greet it not only as the subject but as an artist herself. But I was still nervous. The stakes were high—her comfort and wellbeing, our relationship. My work.