Kendra Tanacea ’88

The soft mauves of 1984. Beebe’s living room, a silver urn of Darjeeling, assorted cookies, scads of golden light. Chip Case, bearded, cross-legged, jeaned. On the rug. In this warm memory, he’s barefoot. A guitar slung around him. (A jacquard strap?) And he’s singing: he’s the man who never returned. Bells: you have a male caller. Meanwhile, in the quadrangle, the Widows—all in sheer black—by the bronze walking man a capellaed: are you ready my sister, are you ready for the journey? That winter, I crunched the snow uphill to the observatory. There, we gathered outside. With her outstretched arm, Wendy Bauer traced Cassiopeia—the bright W in the night sky.