In Blackwater Woods
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go,
to let it go.
— Mary Oliver
Rachel Dhason Varghese was a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, an aunt, a friend. She was a teacher, a singer, a dancer, an artist, a poet, a polyglot. She was an adventurer, a protector, a companion. She loved trees and cats and dogs and most other animals. She loved to travel, and she was particularly fond of long, rambling walks. She had a grand sense of humor and she was funny. She laughed a lot. She loved Star Trek: The Next Generation, Seinfeld, and Frasier. She had a beautiful smile and the warmest eyes. She was a friend to everyone she met, open and ready with her smiles, much to the embarrassment of her children when they were teenagers. She was a talker and a gifted storyteller. She made up stories on the spot for her adoring children and grandchildren. She was the keeper of the family legends and she never forgot a name. She was a master baker and chef who won cookery contests by dreaming up recipes during her free periods between classes. She loved to host parties and feed people and love them fiercely. She lived her life fully and she leaves the world a more beautiful place than she found it. Those of us who remain are all the richer for having had her in our lives and all the poorer for having lost her. She was peerless.
