I've posted links to articles about her case if you're interested, but the real reason for this post is to show what a grieving heart looks like from the inside out. I never knew Jenni-Lyn, but I did have a front row seat to my cousin healing. Recently, she sent me the following poem about Jenni and then I wrote another in response. The first is obviously more accurate, whereas mine includes some fiction, but I hope it will remind you how beautiful it is to be given time on this Earth.
Never fear getting older. It is a privilege denied to many.
Jenni’s Winter Farewell
-Claire Hinde
The word was “missing.” I didn’t understand it.
1 year ago “missing” meant like on a milk carton.
1 year from a girl who brought me more than I imagined.
Friends, pieces of her own heart that would have been hidden without the glow of her.
Creativity. Choreography. Courage to push the limits
Gumption enough to struggle in a city.
My very own aftermath.
I’m so grateful to her, and I can’t believe it’s been 1 year.
Since “missing” like on a milk carton.
A full year since texts I didn’t understand, and a knot of worry, and posters.
1 year since there was cocoa thermoses in the dance space and too many counselors.
1 year since Matt’s voice.
Since Matt’s glasses.
1 year since he and Duzen sat calmly next to me so that I wouldn’t be alone as I wrote myself raw.
Onto scraps of paper. In books. Letters. On cards. Cocktail napkins. On my friends.
1 year since Mr. Gleason broke my heart.
1 year since I could hear her in music, and feel her in class.
1 year since I had to learn to say the word murder. Learn how clumsy that word is in my mouth.
1 year since Fr. Frances.
Nicole stopped wearing make-up. What was the point? We all cried it off before lunch anyway.
1 year since I spoke with cops at a funeral. And I was glad.
Because they were clean, not trying to make me say anything.
Or feel anything. Confide anything. Heal.
“I didn’t know they were engaged.” “Ok, thanks anyway.”
1 year since her winter farewell, and Jenni moved into the snow.
I’m so grateful, because it was beautiful.
Frost
-CC
It took a couple of days for Jenni to die, but if you had asked our logic, it would have told you her death was immediate. The word ‘missing’ should have in fact read, ‘not here,’ ‘not living,’ ‘not existent,’ ‘not a chance.’ But nobody asked logic, did they? It was hope they sought, and hope they found as a fainting ember, clinging to every tattered string of evidence. People can survive in freezing temperatures. Her last text message wasn’t sent from very far. There is no body, not yet, not yet. And we’d breathe slowly on the embers every few hours, trying to preserve what warmth we could.
Then the police went into the woods. And the dogs found what went missing, yes missing, and then we were certain the phrase was a lie.
Murder. What an easy way to turn acid into a word.
But the snow? Preserved her very well.
Suddenly it’s three days later and Claire is crying on my lap. I whisper sweet words even though I can see them roll off her cheeks and break apart on the carpet below. I hold her hands. I feel her tears. They’re cold, like ice, and I realize now that she, like Jenni, is covered in snow. I see her fingers still, hear her breathing slow, feel her heartbeat stuttered and stop, frozen as it is in grief’s trap.
Suddenly it’s three months later and Claire calls me on the phone. “I choreographed a dance for her. We all did.” “That’s wonderful,” I say. “I know,” she replies, “but I can’t bring myself to watch it.”
Suddenly it’s six months later and there’s a memorial service. Claire won’t return my calls, but she does send a single text message with a single word: Breathing.
Now suddenly it’s a year later and Claire sends me her own memorial in the mail. A poem. It’s lovely and I cry.
And after the words move past my eyes I see it. There, there in the corner. A spark. A glow. An ember! And as the frost begins to thaw, I hear a single heart beat pulse again into the air.
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