Jane died of cancer with a pile of her poems on the bedside table. Her husband and friends lovingly gathered her words and published her first and only chapbook: When My Heart Goes Dark, I Turn The Porch Light On.
I met Jane soon after she opened her creative writing school, The Writing Salon. I nervously entered the doors of her cottage and let her teach me the ways of personal memoir writing. Week after week she invited me to peel off my layers, sink into the world of literary creativity, and share my musings with my classmates. Sometimes trembling, sometimes laughing, I divulged my unspoken stories. I crafted my first published essay in that classroom, while Jane sat cross-legged in the window seat encouraging me to tenderly open yet another vein.
People ask me if I've written anything lately. No. I offer a flimsy list of excuses.
But you, Jane. I felt your breath on my neck as your friends read from your newborn book. You remind me that words can pierce infinity.
"You only have to write 10 minutes a day," I hear you whisper as I wake from my slumber.