December 2025
Living in Superlatives*
by Stephanie Kemp
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I spent Saturday baking for everyone I miss.
Determined to make sure that every single person I love knows that I love them. (I didn’t make it to the post office, and I gave many of my baked goods to strangers, so don’t be sad if you didn’t get yours.)
Ready to rejoin the ranks of the living and overlapping. (You see, I just had cancer.)
Flying without (too much) caffeine.
Telling anyone who would listen on this gorgeous day that:
“The light has never been so perfect!”
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I couldn’t wait to clean up the neighborhood chalkboard wall.
Eat the most delicious breakfast (an egg and piece of toast) in the history of the land.
Write a new poem on my crumpled paper napkin:
When the World is Pretty
Go out and dive into it.
Look around,
float upside down,
show others how to do it.
Touch and taste and listen
Breathe through your nose
and smell it.
This world is fucking beautiful.
Feel free to (stop) and yell it.
I even made a Holiday card:
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Then my daughter called from her semester abroad in Italy:
Mom? I’m fine, but are you watching the news?
It had just happened. She knew because her friend texted from Providence, hiding in a building they used to go to together, alone.
In quick succession:
Brown.
Bondi Beach.
Brentwood.
How do we do this?
Brutal.
Broken.
Brookline.
It is unsustainable,
And absolutely terrifying.
Everything black and white
24/7
With cocked guns at all temples,
Making every day without tragedy or calamity impossibly beautiful.
Do you see it?
But….
This is exhausting.
Where is the grey?
We need it.
How do we live in these extremes without imploding or exploding?
Where are the grown ups?
We need them.
Where is the middle ground that used to live between these (now) immovable tentpoles?
Where are all the colors?
I thought there could be nothing Big World scarier than our institutions breaking.
I was wrong.
“The person of interest has been released.”
It was the first night of Chanukah.
Their son did it.
I never believed we would lose our decency.
A response to a mom and dad murdered at the hands of their son.
His response to a mom and dad murdered at the hands of their son.
I wrote another poem on a different crumpled napkin:
When the World is Scary
You need to use both feet.
You need to stand with family, friends
And neighbors on your street.
You need to use your eyes and ears
Your hands your knees your brain.
You need to say, I have to breathe
Then make this your refrain.
I am only still writing anything (or moving my arms, legs, mouth) because of:
The kids who are brave enough to keep going to school,
The man who tackled the shooter,
The daughter who found her mom and dad.
I can’t stop seeing them all in the foreground or background of every single waking thought and most dreams.
I will keep going because I am a human being on the planet earth who still can.
And because I am a grown up.
A grown up human being who (still) believes in people.
When I was little I thought superlatives could only mean “the best version of something good.”
I hope we don’t leave our kids with the thought that superlatives can only mean “the worst version of something bad.”
I feel another poem coming on:
It was the Best Day Ever
Until it was the worst…
I’m too tired to finish it,
but it will end in or First or Cursed.
I am going out now…..to the grocery store, the bank, the post office.
The World.
I’ll be wearing grey, waving and trying to be decent as I look for the colors.
I hope you can see me. I will be looking for you,
I promise.
*This was supposed to be a funny piece dedicated to my sister-in-law, who pointed out on our recent trip to Laos and Cambodia (the best trip ever - and I mean it) that I speak in superlatives. I will still write something funny for her the next time funny shows up. (Or I will just see if she wants to go out for dinner with me, where we will talk about everything or nothing...or just some things inbetween.)
![]()
Living in Superlatives*
by Stephanie Kemp
I spent Saturday baking for everyone I miss.
Determined to make sure that every single person I love knows that I love them. (I didn’t make it to the post office, and I gave many of my baked goods to strangers, so don’t be sad if you didn’t get yours.)
Ready to rejoin the ranks of the living and overlapping. (You see, I just had cancer.)
Flying without (too much) caffeine.
Telling anyone who would listen on this gorgeous day that:
“The light has never been so perfect!”
I couldn’t wait to clean up the neighborhood chalkboard wall.
Eat the most delicious breakfast (an egg and piece of toast) in the history of the land.
Write a new poem on my crumpled paper napkin:
When the World is Pretty
Go out and dive into it.
Look around,
float upside down,
show others how to do it.
Touch and taste and listen
Breathe through your nose
and smell it.
This world is fucking beautiful.
Feel free to (stop) and yell it.
I even made a Holiday card:
Then my daughter called from her semester abroad in Italy:
Mom? I’m fine, but are you watching the news?
It had just happened. She knew because her friend texted from Providence, hiding in a building they used to go to together, alone.
In quick succession:
Brown.
Bondi Beach.
Brentwood.
How do we do this?
Brutal.
Broken.
Brookline.
It is unsustainable,
And absolutely terrifying.
Everything black and white
24/7
With cocked guns at all temples,
Making every day without tragedy or calamity impossibly beautiful.
Do you see it?
But….
This is exhausting.
Where is the grey?
We need it.
How do we live in these extremes without imploding or exploding?
Where are the grown ups?
We need them.
Where is the middle ground that used to live between these (now) immovable tentpoles?
Where are all the colors?
I thought there could be nothing Big World scarier than our institutions breaking.
I was wrong.
“The person of interest has been released.”
It was the first night of Chanukah.
Their son did it.
I never believed we would lose our decency.
A response to a mom and dad murdered at the hands of their son.
His response to a mom and dad murdered at the hands of their son.
I wrote another poem on a different crumpled napkin:
When the World is Scary
You need to use both feet.
You need to stand with family, friends
And neighbors on your street.
You need to use your eyes and ears
Your hands your knees your brain.
You need to say, I have to breathe
Then make this your refrain.
I am only still writing anything (or moving my arms, legs, mouth) because of:
The kids who are brave enough to keep going to school,
The man who tackled the shooter,
The daughter who found her mom and dad.
I can’t stop seeing them all in the foreground or background of every single waking thought and most dreams.
I will keep going because I am a human being on the planet earth who still can.
And because I am a grown up.
A grown up human being who (still) believes in people.
When I was little I thought superlatives could only mean “the best version of something good.”
I hope we don’t leave our kids with the thought that superlatives can only mean “the worst version of something bad.”
I feel another poem coming on:
It was the Best Day Ever
Until it was the worst…
I’m too tired to finish it,
but it will end in or First or Cursed.
I am going out now…..to the grocery store, the bank, the post office.
The World.
I’ll be wearing grey, waving and trying to be decent as I look for the colors.
I hope you can see me. I will be looking for you,
I promise.
*This was supposed to be a funny piece dedicated to my sister-in-law, who pointed out on our recent trip to Laos and Cambodia (the best trip ever - and I mean it) that I speak in superlatives. I will still write something funny for her the next time funny shows up. (Or I will just see if she wants to go out for dinner with me, where we will talk about everything or nothing...or just some things inbetween.)
