I read of you in the news today. You, that woman about my age who went jogging and never came home. Broken teeth. Exposed skin. Grass in one hand. A brutal death.
I read how your father was the one who found you.
I read your mother’s angry words to your killer. The language she chose. I bet that’s where you got your passion.
I read of that, too. Your passion. In your own words. On your blog.
I read and I read your blog, and I felt the force of life in you, even though you’re now not living, and even though when you were living, I never even knew you.
Your words live on. Your writing. Your need for writing. Reflection. Understanding. Feeling. Living. Tasting. You were able to bottle moments of life in a stream of language, and these are given again and again, even after you are gone. Sensations. Feelings. Memories. Recollections. Sentiments. Your poems and your stories and your rambles…. They ignite the sensations of life in others. They did in me.
You shared things I don’t know if I ever will. You were courageous in your gift, your art. And now you may no longer be creating, but you are a source from which others will. Your family and friends. The people you saw each day at work. All those in your community walking the streets in remembrance of you. And me, a fellow female who was brought to tears experiencing your experience of life through words that at one point in time you were alive to write.
May you rest in peace.