Trigger Warning:  The following two articles directly pertain to the accident last November in which two of our dear friends, Tracey Heymann and Lenore Edwards, passed away.

What water can do.

Weep life into the land.

Drag glass through the sand.

Tear through faces leaving traces in the sweat

that mock the places where we wept.

Apart from one another but a part of each other we stretch to accommodate,

make spaces to fill with that blood of the earth that soars,

pours down

to draw out the deepest roots,

reap the fruits of buried fears that spring from the showers.

Showing your face,

wet.

Is filling your space with the hastily patched regret of transience.

Since the moments of fear have seared away anger

I hunger for lightness.

The brightness of trust,

the rightness of getting lost in the moment,

letting frost thaw,

playing till raw,

climbing higher than your mind can go,

touching the fire to test the glow,

indulging the impulse of wonder under the thundering sky that cries STOP.

I take a moment,

allow the rush to pull me away,

into the fray of thoughts that threaten to drown every movement.

Surround me,

pull me down the slope

to loathe the hope which seems to be the only way to free my limbs.

I catch a glimpse and dive to avoid it.

The void where I sit now is safe from the rip tides of expectation as I softly slide through time with no motivation to grab on,

then slowly it’s gone.

No longer stuck under the moments.

I don’t let the tightness hold me.

To be thrown is what I need.

Stripped of the fear that nearly tears my racing heart,

stripped of the clothes that start to hide that I’m inside the body that’s alive.

Unbroken.

But hollow.

Unspoken are the words, swallowed. Unheard.

Then dropped on the shore before the dive to revive. To be alive.

— Faye Christoforo 11/10/2012

 


 

Memories are flooding back to me. At the hospital, sitting in the waiting room. 1 o’clock…2 o’clock…3 o’clock in the morning. David Dawson, telling us the truth. “She’s gone.” Waking up in a haze. Tracey dead, hope and fear for Graham and Lenore. Going to Stout, so many times. A season of vigils. Friends disappearing, scaring me, supporting me. Supporting them. Escaping to the farm, scrolling through facebook, crying, reading people’s words of support and sadness. Sunshine, just like today. Worrying, “Will Lenore ever play violin again? Will she ever walk again? Will she laugh when this is all over?” Couldn’t imagine. Getting picked up by Hendrix at the airport on November 26—“Lenore passed away last night.” Permanent. She’s gone. Crying, but not too much at first. Back on campus and everyone is in shock. At Stout. Again. Staring into each other’s red eyes. Emilia, Flora, Cecelia. No Faye. Driving to St. Louis with butterflies in my stomach—what will it feel like to be at a friend’s funeral? Shitty, that’s what. Fucking terrible, ripping. Need a cigarette. Smoke a cigarette. Then climb, climb, sweat, and cry all over the City Museum. Because of course Lenore would bring me there and make me assert myself a little more than I was in the mood for. She pushed me to play a little more, to laugh a lot more. She shined.

How not to let myself reduce her memory down to a sunflower? I push myself now, today, to remember her anger, her annoying habits, her imperfections.

I’ve been on-and-off crying all day. Sad and tired, but letting myself sit with it. Won’t be able to do that tomorrow or at all until Thanksgiving break, if I can help it.

Hey, T and L: thanks for the sunshine today, you two.

–Rachel Winsberg 11/8/2013

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This entry was posted in Issue 3: November 15, 2013. Bookmark the permalink.

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