Still Ronnie, standing in while Sarah is New Jersey.
Is it still too soon? I want to write Rachel something lovely. Something as good as anything I’ve ever written. (Something as beautiful as her friend Chemobabe’s eulogy, or as world-changingly essential as Gayle’s) She deserves at least that. But I can’t, yet. I need to take the fact and my feelings about her death to the park, to the cathedral, to the river – to my sacred places. I need to tell them about her. And my sense of loss. Until I’ve done that I won’t find the words, my words, for my friend Rachel.
So, for now, here is a very short poem. A couple of nights ago, Gayle and Sarah, from their opposite sides of the Atlantic, were busily putting together a short book for this weekend’s memorial and celebration ceremony for Rachel. Rachel’s own writings, of course, and photographs of her, plus hastily gathered contributions from some of her beloved blogging friends. I was on hand, proof reading and cooking, when Sarah turned around and said ‘Do you want to write anything?’ I stared at my screen for a few minutes, and then my hands wrote this, my song of grief for the passing of the force of nature that was Rachel Cheetham Moro:
You were a noise
The noise of joy,
The noise of snark,
The no half measures conversation
Of a life full lived.Oh, RachYou are a joyYou are a permanent remark,The clearly quizzical challengeTo every half baked thought.
All the notes
Of all the orchestras,
Played at once and turned up full.
I could hear you and Sarah
From down the street
When you were Skyping.
And now, without you,
I don’t know what Skype is for.