a rose for Asha

This picture is courtesy of the Valley Press (click it if you want to see a larger photo); it shows the memorial to Asha and her daughter. I finally went into the market today; the very last time I was there, Asha was my checkout clerk. One of my rosebushes--an unnamed pink rose I got from a sale table years ago at Orchard Supply--is still putting out beautiful blooms; it's the first rose to bloom in spring and the last one to go dormant. I cut one for Asha's memorial site and went out to Ben Lomond. The air has been so incredibly dry; my skin feels crackly and the quality of afternoon light today was pure, ripe gold, one of those days where autumn really begins to let itself be known. The memorial to Asha has, among other things, mourning candles, many, many bunches of flowers (some already wilted due to the heat of the last few days), Polish flags, stuffed toys, and tall container candles, similar to veladoras, except the only real veladora there was one of Frida Kahlo. Strangely, Asha’s photograph was not there today. Kids--I guessed fifth-graders--were milling about the memorial, looking at the flowers and candles, wondering if the killer would come visit it and would be caught that way. I walked into the store after putting my rose among the other flowers and felt a wall of grief surround me. I could barely stay there and decided to forget the cup of "Foglifter" coffee I thought I might buy. Nobody was at the coffee cart anyway. I decided to just leave, though I heard some interesting, somber conversations among the store employees. I had a college friend, Anne Swanke, who was killed in 1985 by a serial killer, so the grief of these days has been bringing up that old sorrow again. The only remotely meaningful thing that came out of Anne's death for me was that her murderer was apprehended and removed from society, so he could never kill again. Her dad was one of my philosophy professors and her sister was an acquaintance of mine; Anne and I sang in the alto section of the university choir. Though much time has passed, I still feel angry and sad that Anne was taken from a life that was rightfully hers--and just because some maniac found an opportune moment to do so. So I wonder what meaning will come out of this situation, where a young woman was just going about the daily business of her life and suddenly was erased from existence. There is a statement in the recovery movement which says, "More will be revealed," and of course this will. For now, Frida keeps watch over the flowers which lie open to the sun at Asha's workplace memorial, over the cards and notes scribbled with messages like threads that bind lives to this unbelievable sorrow, and another day draws silently and sadly to a close.