To Arley

I remember reading that states of grief can mean time plays funny tricks. Details stand out. People lose track of larger meaning and remember weird, incongruent details. When talking about the person who has passed it seems impolite to fixate on a purple vase or the threads in a scarf. When you died so suddenly, our last hug played on repeat, eerily slowly. We met in the courtyard. We were going to have lunch in my office. Flower dress. Huddled me close. I never get huddled close because I’m tall but you’re even taller, so I got to feel what it’s like to be enveloped before lunch.

Since then, I have missed you in so many ways, finding myself turning to your earnest eyes when someone has said the most awful thing. Remember the slice of rainbow cake? That first workshop where you fished me out of stunned stammering? Remember how we said over and over that we had to hear from students? That with any of these changes in classrooms we had to check in? Had to listen? Had to feel with hearts that had never before been used in teaching?

I remember the day so vividly when we decided to write this. There was very green grass. And we made a noun into a verb. Storying.

These are the voices you so tenderly and skillfully gathered.

We’ve tried to put them in order for you.

As I proofread and edit, get stuck and write some more, I have said a prayer of thanks.

That I got huddled before lunch.

And that your earnest eyes will always be ours.

~ Seanna

Arley,

Thank you for taking me on a journey…

What started as a side-project led to reflecting, reading, and deep dialogue. You made me listen to voices I was not attuned to hear and re-think about how and why I teach. You taught me that inclusion is not a theory, it is a daily practice of care, openness, and ongoing learning. Disability justice, for you, was not an “add-on,” it was a way of teaching, parenting, and being in this world. I will always remember this.

Lilach