August 17, 2001

• In spite of the date logged, it's still Thursday in Seattle. I didn't post an entry Wednesday; it was a full day, and I was tired when I got home.

  WHEEL, a Seattle organization of homeless and formerly homeless women, holds a Women in Black vigil whenever a homeless person in Seattle dies alone outside. We've held eight vigils since January 2000, for a total of 11 people. Six of those have been homicides, none yet solved, and two suspected homicides, not yet determined, or solved.

  Wednesday we held vigil for Kathleen Bowman, age 35, found dead on Friday August 10 under the bridge near 1st Avenue & South Michigan Street; a suspected homicide.

  I'm glad we do this. I wish like hell we didn't have to.

  I've written poems after our vigils before. This time I wrote about my own mortality.
  

  
  I will not ask you not to cry
  though most of you will know that I
  have gone to Glory leaped into the light been embraced by Gaia
  moved on to my next body next level next planet next lesson
  or become a small red puppy.
  
  Even when spirit still sings to spirit
  when skin is parted from skin bodies must cry.
  
  I will hope that my writing friends survive me
  and strangers, reading their fine elegies
  will think, "I wish I'd known her"
  and feel a moment of regret.
  
  It would be nice
  if all my books went into reprint
  the media published retrospectives of my life
  and somebody famous wrote an unauthorized biography.
  
  I would like to imagine my friends
  marching on City Hall
  shouting, "Her spirit is with us!"
  
  I would like
  my name on some small thing
  a shelter perhaps
  a scholarship
  or an all-night coffeehouse with a library
  where anyone can stay up all night and write.
  
  That someone might say, "She made a difference."
  
  But most of all
  I hope someone remembers putting up tents in the rain
  making snow-angels on Mount Rainier in July
  watching all-night Dr. Who marathons and eating brownies
  my holding your hand all night when you almost died
  you sitting by my hospital bed when I didn't know you were there
  speak fondly of how crotchety I got
  or try to share jokes that only we two understood.
  
  The only thing that kept me here so long
  was the bond woven of moments and touches
  over and over again
  from one single heart to another.
  
  Please God I be remembered
  for many small things.
  
  We fight revolutions so that one child can laugh
  while blowing dandelions.
  

  • 12:28 am
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