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This week brought hints o f seasonal change: t it
sun obtained its apogee and shadows lenghthen,
squadrons o f pelicans form up and vector southward,
spider fishers net the vines and shrubbery near my door,
red alder leaves scuffle and rattle gravel lanes, heavy
dew skins car windows on cool mornings, long green
swells hump toward shore and scour the ruck of
summer tourism from our beaches.
Today I smell fall in the ocean's fishy breath.
A fine gauze o f summer dust swathes the familiar
objects in my tiny library. Many o f my oldest friends
gather here. They've missed me during the hurly-burly
clamour o f summer. I long for reunion and re­
acquaintance.
Ernest Hemingway abides. He once told me for
whom the bell tolls. I am indebted. William Faulkner
sits off in a comer with a motley o f his characters from
Yoknapatawpha County. The tribulations o f his
redneck farmers taught me lessons about a larger world.
Conrad and Melville smile down from shelves
overhead. Each imbued me with a lust for things
maritime and oceanic. In the library's north comer,
quiet and apart, sit my friends o f internal fire, the poets.
How will I ever repay them for their ministrations to my
constant need? Theodore Roethke, Pablo Neruda,
William Blake, Marianne Moore, Mary Oliver, Randall
Jarrell, William Stafford, Nikos Kazantzakis...what sad
shell would I be without you?
A handful o f new acquaintances have gathered here
in my library over the summer months too, and I’m
anxious to converse. Tim Winton brings tales o f West
Australia: Cloudstreet and Shallows. The dark
imaginings o f Cormac McCarthy, Suttree, Blood
Meridian, and The Child o f God promise a difficult
relationship between us.
Soon the long rains o f November will bring us all
together in early darkness. I feel a tingling of
expectation, first steps on new journeys. They bid me
welcome home.
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■ Lauren C ornw all’s Vigil...
I Lauren - Do you know they held a vigil for you
■ last night? Do you know what a vigil is? “A watch
■ kept during normal sleeping hours.” A watch. 1
■ know it was attended by many of your friends who
■ couldn’t grasp how you could be gone. It was
■ attended by parents who held their children close to
I them. Parents who allowed their children to be
■ treated by the man who killed you. Parents
■ wondering how to tuck their children in bed and help
■ them know safety. They were filled with vague and
■ disquieting thoughts. And they held their children
■ tighter and didn’t try to wipe away the tears that fell.
I Oh, Lauren It’s a wild world.' There are all kinds
■ of predators out there. Sometimes we just don’t
■ recognize them as a predator because they look like
■ our Dad —or sister —or store clerk.
I 1 would have been at the vigil, Lauren, if I weren’t
■ hall a world away. I would have remembered the
■ cold day last November when I wrapped you in my
I green sweater. You tiny thing, I wrapped you twice
■ and tied the sleeves like ribbons. L au ren -a little
■ gift. You sat, shivering in the courtyard, waiting for
■ your dad to come. How late was he? You were
I
■ always waiting for someone, weren’t you,
I
■ sweetheart?
I I told you, you never have to be cold as long as
I my studio was open. I told you never to wait in the
■ cold, shivering. You are welcome. Always
I welcome. I crossed a line I’d wanted to cross for a
■ long time. I told you someone was always willing to
■ listen to you in my studio. If something'anything,
I was troubling you, or if you wanted to cry, or
I needed anything, my studio was a safe place. Do
■ you understand? A safe place. See how often your I
I good friend Kathryn goes there? She knows it’s a
■ safe place. I’m her godmother and Marilee is her
I
■ good friend. I touched your shoulders with my
j
■ hands, You leaned into me. Looked up at me with I
I those sad eyes. Did you know? Fear? Sense? I I
I knew there was a bigger sadness there than just
I
I having to wait for somebody.
I
I Lauren, that’s what I would have thought of
I
I because it was a vigil, with lacy edges of something I
■ holy, I might have tried to set my anger at the edge of I
Ithe sea and let the tide carry it away. 1 would have I
I attempted to set down my useless judgments and
I
■ questions (hows and whys and shouldn’t you have I
I said something more?)
I
I Little Lauren, for the void which your fathers hand I
I has inked in: 1 cry. For the children whose children I
|m a y have romped this world: I mourn. For the
I
■ children of our community who feel unsettled as they I
■ lie in their own beds: I tremble. For my god
I
■ daughter, Kathryn, who will not throw you another I
■ ball: I know her loss. Kathryn who, as an adult, will I
■ sometime lose a friend and will sit to write: “When I I
■ was a little girl I lost a friend to a senseless, brutal act I
■of murderous insanity...”
I
I Perhaps in that writing Kathryn will, those many I
■ years later, uncover some sense. Come to see that I
I madness has many appearances. Come to grasp that I
■ deep frustration and powerlessness are greater
I
■ criminals than greed or hunger. Come to see that, in I
■ all, as children and adults, the moment ticking on the I
■ clock is the one we’ve g o t.. and if we would love, I
lo r speak, or discover ... if we would — we’d better. I
I Because not every bedtime story is a sweet one and I
■ sometimes little girls don’t wake up after a happy
I
lending.
I
I Lauren — 1 will light a candle for your sisters. I
I And you. I will light a candle for your mother.
I
I What that means is - soon I will intentionally set my I
I hand and spirit to an act of remembering.
I
I And for your father I will drink a lot of wine. I I
I will run, pounding my anger into the ground. I will I
I lift weights and push my muscles until they ache. I I
I will take the hate I have toward that man whose
I
I semen contributed to your breath and work until 1 I
I sweat past all the whys? and some compassion drips I
I from me.
I
I Then I can say, “Oh, David. I’m sorry you
I
I carried the weight of such a demon that drove you to I
I such an abhorrent act. ”
I
Maybe someday there’ll be more: right now the
I
Icompassion doesn’t spread far. Now the “sorry”
I
pushes into, “I’m sorry not to have spoken. I’m
I
sorry I ignored you: sorry I didn’t scream, you
I
bastard, good for your wife to hide your children
I
from you. Good for her!”
I
The sorry I say is actually for myself. Sorry that 1 I
stilled the scream - that I contained my instinct.
I
Lauren — you little murdered sweet waif — I
I
dedicate my scream to you. It will not be quieted
I
next time it longs to be heard.
I
That is my vigil.
I
July 18, 1997
Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey
I
I
W hat’s d o n e to child ren, th ey will do
to so c ie ty .
-K arl
M en n in ger
imurno«. m m w? ¿3