They found it next to her, floating upon the surface, half entwined within her fragile hair. The pond had swallowed them both, becoming a shallow grave of beauty. It was the technician who recorded each article, who felt that there was something special, something within the fabric’s electric swirls, that must tell her story. The turquoise, briefly slashed within magenta, yellow and black, mimicked the shade within her emptied eyes. Those eyes left us all unsettled that day. We shall never know why her body was there alone beyond the facts known – an art teacher, age 25, with no known family, fighting a battle of cancer. An autopsie eventually revealed that the poison had become too much, succumbing her with pneumonia. A neighbor, whom wept when he was questioned, spoke of her daily walks despite the damp, April nights. He wanted to walk with her, but she said it was her time with God.
The ceremony was held on an unusually bright day. I stood behind those that knew her, listening to their words. A student painted the final screen of her story: “She was like the wind of Spring – she would ruffle our thoughts so that we could consider a new beginning, find a new opening within our art.” I would learn that the scarf we found with her that day was her own art, her way of creating a new opening while too weak to create anew.
Years later, the fabric remains strong and true – the turquoise, a gentle reminder of a gaze of grace from a soul that knew what it was to live, to die.
(This is the second reworking of this prose poem – the first one was written while waiting for a very moving lecture this evening. I was too lazy to get up and find my little notebook, so recreated the story into this – the premise is pretty much the same. I apologize for the somber nature – it certainly is not to say that Roberto Alborghetti’s art is somber – it is not, it is quite lively and lovely. I thank him for offering up this picture at my bequest of help for poetic inspiration. ~ a)