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The Eulogy

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Last words. How do you write last words about a person? As if you can summarize the complexity of someone’s entire life into a couple of paragraphs.   Maybe it would be easier if their lives were simple. But with someone like my mom it would take a novel as long as War and Peace and be would titled as appropriately.   If I had to pick a single word to describe my mom it would be dynamic. She was funny, loud and excitable, full of constant change, forceful energy and plenty of ideas. Her thoughts lived outside of her; surrounding her like an aura. Sometimes I could see her grab one right out of the air and play with it for a while. Turning it over and over in her hands, fully absorbing it’s meaning before she let it loose again, saving it for later so she could move on to the next thing. She was restless, as people that are blessed and cursed by deep thinking and a curiosity for the meaning of it all tend to be. Her restlessness was her captor and I believe it was this that truly took h
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Dwindling Wishes - Poem by Kate Lane

Life is a foil Love is a trouble  Beauty will fade  and the riches will flee Prices they double  Pleasures they dwindle  Nothing is as I wish It would be  Kate Lane 
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The Evolution of a Love Bomb - Poem

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Come with me, he said   We will dance in the night   Underneath all the stars   With moon as our light   Lie with me, he said   Put your head on my chest   You’re no longer alone   You can finally rest Love me he said   In the warmth of the dawn   We will need no one else   As the years carry on   Trust me, he said   Do you think I would lie? Do you think I’m that person? Look me straight in the eye   I love you, he said   I didn’t do what she claimed   Why don’t you believe me? You should be so ashamed   Fuck you, he said   When I hit you, you cry?   Why are you such a bitch! How I wish you would die   Please don’t leave me, he said   I won’t do it again   I can’t live with out you   This can’t be the end   I’m sorry he said   But you are to blame   You made me hit you   Why are you playing this game? Goodbye, I said   Thank you for the years   Thank you for the love   Thank you for the tears   Without you I said   I wouldn’t be me   I grew in your arms   Now I’m setting me free   I r
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A Starless Night in the Sierras

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After sunset it was 5:30 pm and pitch black in the Eastern Sierras. The rock formations in the Alabama Hills turned from whimsical in the daylight to menacing under the cloud covered sky. With no stars to watch and the full moon blocked by haze I   was left to decide whether to smoke to help me sleep or if it would just amplify the fact I was all alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the coyote songs to keep me company. I’m strong and independent, I’m strong in independent, I repeated this like a mantra as I wished for curtains to appear over my windows so the imaginary people outside can’t peak in. What is it about the dark that changes our perception? Why is it hard to perceive good things when you can’t see anything at all? It had been 5 months since the night that thrust me into moments like this. Endless moments of me proving to myself I don’t need anyone to do anything. I’m strong and independent, I’m strong and independent. I can sleep in the back country all alone. It
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I was Sure it was a Rifle

It was 4am in the Eastern Sierras and the moon was new. The night before, when it became all dark and all stars, I crawled into bed and let the two strong IPAs do their  silent duty. Now camping alone as a woman comes with its share of apprehensions and vulnerable moments. Especially when said woman has an affinity for true crime podcasts to break up music on long road trips.  So when I woke at 4am to ensure I didn’t miss the sunrise (eastern Sierra sunrises are my favorite thing in life and if you’ve never witnessed the peace and beauty of this moment while sipping coffee on a cool summer morning then put it on your bucket list like right this very second) I was alarmed to see a car parked 20ft from mine, that hadn’t been there when I retreated to my bed at dark.  Questions raced through my sleep fogged mind. This is BLM land. You can camp anywhere. Why would someone pull so close to (pretty much in)  another persons camp site in the middle of the night? Next to a single woman
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The Day the Music Died

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John Prine died.  I cried.  I had never cried at the death of a celebrity before, but he was one of my Mom's favorites, and losing him so soon after her felt somehow significant.  I grew up with his music on constant rotation. I can see myself standing in the living room of our farmhouse. The radio sat on a table made out of an old barn door that still had a working knob in the middle of it. Dear Abbys playing and I try to sing along, but I'm 5 and I have no idea what he's saying. My moms laughing  from the kitchen at my rendition. Later that same year she took me to see him and Arlo Guthrie. It was my first concert. I remember being so excited to see the guy who wrote Dear Abby, thinking maybe I would find out who this Abby was and why she was so dear to him. Either way, I would get to see the real life guy who’s songs I danced to in my living room with my mama. He was a storyteller and as a child I was drawn to that.   On the way to the show we were in a small car acciden
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Her House on the Hill - Poem by Kate Lane (The Mama)

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She has a house on the hill   And she lives there still   Watching time go by   When the sun goes down   And there’s no one around   She’ll sit alone and cry   She’ll cry for the years   And the leftover tears   For the dreams she never won   Like the love of one man   And the touch of his hand   When the moon meets the morning sun   So if you see her there   In her white porch chair   Ask her to please stay strong   She has a life to live   And a lot to give   And her love should be coming along   Kate Lane 1985
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