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Good night, Connie...
Apr. 12th, 2005 12:12 amOne of my all time favorite people died this morning.
It makes everything else going on in my life seem petty by comparison.
Wide smile.
Large Sally Jessie glasses.
Fancied herself to be another Lucy.
Wild, short cropped hair, usually dyed dark brown, but with grey streaks, peaking through. When stressed, she would clutch at her hair, as if she could pull the answer from her roots.
I once wrote a 400 page novel about her. Called it "Friday Nights at the Red Pine Motel."
Always supported my craft. Always pushing me to do another play. Particularly fond of a series of mystery nights I wrote and directed.
The godmother to Ashley.
Bright eyed innocence, at the most inexplicable of times.
That stare, the stare she would get when she thought she had a great idea.
Those crazy stories, that wild glimpse of brilliance.
The inner sadness.
I'm going to post some text here, wild and raw. The way I want to remember her. The story's too long, the writing is rough, the formatting's totally askew, but I'm tired and it's late and I just want to get down...I just want to set down...a memory...a memory of Sandy. The way I remember her. A story I wrote. But an actual night. A snapshot. A story told in younger times.
She passed away after a short three days, at the age of 59. She had an anuerism, then a stroke, then slipped into a coma. Then died.
I didn't know until it was too late.
I love you, Connie. Always have. Always will.
The world now has one less color in the rainbow.
( Read more... )
It makes everything else going on in my life seem petty by comparison.
Wide smile.
Large Sally Jessie glasses.
Fancied herself to be another Lucy.
Wild, short cropped hair, usually dyed dark brown, but with grey streaks, peaking through. When stressed, she would clutch at her hair, as if she could pull the answer from her roots.
I once wrote a 400 page novel about her. Called it "Friday Nights at the Red Pine Motel."
Always supported my craft. Always pushing me to do another play. Particularly fond of a series of mystery nights I wrote and directed.
The godmother to Ashley.
Bright eyed innocence, at the most inexplicable of times.
That stare, the stare she would get when she thought she had a great idea.
Those crazy stories, that wild glimpse of brilliance.
The inner sadness.
I'm going to post some text here, wild and raw. The way I want to remember her. The story's too long, the writing is rough, the formatting's totally askew, but I'm tired and it's late and I just want to get down...I just want to set down...a memory...a memory of Sandy. The way I remember her. A story I wrote. But an actual night. A snapshot. A story told in younger times.
She passed away after a short three days, at the age of 59. She had an anuerism, then a stroke, then slipped into a coma. Then died.
I didn't know until it was too late.
I love you, Connie. Always have. Always will.
The world now has one less color in the rainbow.
( Read more... )
