candles at sundown for Asha Veil

A few weeks ago, I was shopping in the Ben Lomond Super, thinking about getting supplies for winter. This area is prone to power outages all winter long, and I like to have a lot of candles for the inevitable hours without light at night. I have two cut-glass kerosene lamps, a small glass oil lamp, numerous tin lanterns, and a few container candles. I passed by the small "hardware" section in the market, which is suprisingly well-stocked with power outage necessities, including very nice tall candles in glass containers. I noticed that there was one pink container candle, a very nice shade of watermelon-pink, and I decided to buy it. The checkout clerk took a moment to roll it up in a separate paper bag to protect it, and I walked out into the warm day--just an ordinary day.

But my checkout clerk that day, the one who carefully made sure my candle didn't get broken, was Asha Veil, and I had no idea then that I would be holding that very candle a few weeks later at her memorial service.

There was a community memorial service at the Ben Lomond Park for Asha this evening at seven o'clock. I'm usually afraid to be around the park at dusk or later, but this was a wonderful gathering, a candlelight memorial to a person I now wish I had gotten to know a bit better. She touched so many lives with a good heart, and there was a big turnout of folks, including many firefighters, who wept openly. I was deeply moved by the sight of so much light in the gathering darkness, under the parasol branches of an old, twisted maple, its foliage still untouched by autumn. It was a gathering of an entire spectrum of a community: moms, dads, young people, street people, senior citizens, people from most walks of life. I thought of my beloved friend Harvey Birenbaum's life, how I felt he had died too young as well--but Harvey was 69 years old, with a respected academic career, and even got to enjoy a bit of retirement. He wrote books, got to have a family, saw his children grow up. Asha's life was brutally cut short, a sapling pulled by the roots. What her life and the life of her child would be are only questions now. Her future and that of her child have been robbed forever. Her family and loved ones' futures with her have been usurped as well.

I left after the gathering was over, while people were beginning to sing "Amazing Grace." All I could wonder, as I walked in the dark, past buildings I've known all the decades I have lived in the Valley, is why someone would do this, and who did it. I don't have a single profound thought tonight, just this question, like the call of an owl into the night. The sheer hatred, the contempt and insanity of killing a pregnant woman and just dumping her by the side of a road--it is beyond comprehension.

For now, there was a moment of solemn love and brief light; perhaps later, there will be more answers, and hopefully justice.