I never thought I loved Chico. But that December day as I lay curled up in my childhood bed watching the interaction between Christine and Sister Joan on my iPad, I realized that I had paid attention to it. And if I really hated it, why did I spend so much time telling other people about it?
I find myself returning to poems like “The Silver Lily” and “Witchgrass” for their drastic reimaginings of time — the eternal way perennial plants experience the cyclicity of seasons, or the striking temporality of the fragile flower. It is in light of this that her death feels strangely unreal, its finality in tension with the timelessness of her words.
I was terrified that the rest of my life would be like high school: I would be forever chasing that next line on my resume, that laureate title or publication — swerving around railcars for one more gold coin — in hopes of one more glimpse into how to understand and describe my human condition.