Those Winter Nights

My personal world exploded in 2006, and I responded by going back to school. At that time, I felt shy, scared, and insecure, unsure of my writing abilities or who I was or how my near-future world would look. The first day of my MFA low-residency program, I went to my classes and returned to my dorm room, alone. Shortly after, at a reception for our program, one of my classmates invited me to the evening hangout. I said no at first, of course. After all, I was Rachel the mommy/wife/daughter, and those were the only parts of me I recalled. Who was Rachel the person? I didn’t know anymore.       

            Thankfully, Daniel persisted. “What, are you an old lady?” He challenged.

            The question stuck with me, and before I knew it, I found myself at the party, playing poker and hanging out with these strange and hilarious writers and writing teachers. Jack was part of this crew, and he along with the others listened to me, teased me, accepted me, challenged me, and helped me remember Rachel. Just Rachel.  

            They also read my writing and responded, providing needed feedback and affirmation. After three years in the program, I emerged a stronger, more confident writer and person, something I would need as I stepped into the future as a single mother of two and a college writing instructor.

I will never forget Jack or the others I met during this time of study, reflection, and writing. And I strive to always remember Just Rachel, even when all the roles I have press down on me.

Last night, I learned that Jack passed away suddenly. I am shocked, devastated, saddened. Over the past decade, I have remained Facebook friends with Jack and many of the others from the time working on my MFA degree. I value that connection. Jack always posted things that were inspiring or important. Kind and passionate, Jack was a light in the dark and a voice for those who needed one. He died too young. The world has lost one of the good ones, and I am heartbroken.

As I think about Jack and those long nights of fellowship and of how everything felt, I am reminded of a poem that I wrote then. Today, I write again, and tonight, I will drink a shot of tequila in memory of Jack and those winter nights.
          * I write this in tribute to Jack and in gratitude to him and all the others from my MFA program. 

These Winter Nights 

Tom Waits etches in the Days Inn hotel room in Murray, Kentucky,

each of the black, sleepless nights,

discussions of anything and everything

and nothing over poker chips and tequila. 

Of Chekhov and Blake and tired old affairs. 

Of clichés, childhood stories and orgasmic delight. 

Our tongues bloody, we revisit, rehash, reopen. 

We expand. 

Nothing too sacred, brilliant writing the exception. 

We create lyrics and jokes, strum banjos, guitars and mandolins,

blow kazoos in the Dunce corner

with our busy hands, cold feet, little ears and echoing laughter. 

We speak the language of the damned. 

Another gulp of gold beer, a crunch of Cheeze-its. 

"Boobs are the new ankle." 

We endearingly call ourselves, "Freaks!" 

I mean, "Artists."  "Freaks!"

First experiences for some,

"Fuck you, motherfucker, I've lost my laundry money."

We do nothing and everything. 

Present each moment. 

It is perfect. 

My mind stretches, vivid images color my dreams.

It's the witching hour, and I

EXPLODE!

Masks falling,

falling away.

I am naked and new, trembling, brimming with words. 

I am alive!

*“These Winter Nights” was first published in 2008 with Big Pulp.