I will never step foot in the student center or on the Commons' patio without thinking of Hedy, and the conversations I had with her, unique and strange conversations that I will never have again. She was, in the words of a good friend, entirely singular. She had a soft voice, smart words, and an eccentric sparkle. No one wrote the things Hedy wrote; no one said the things Hedy said.
Pictured Above: The shoes Hedy sent me from China, a pair both of my girls wore, a pair my daughter Z wore the day Hedy died, before I knew. Also me in Hedy's green dress, which she sent for me to wear for my reading in Boston. She was there, and it was the last time I saw her. I was listening to her talk as this picture was taken.
There is so much I loved about her, and so much I didn't know.
For further reading, in words better than my own:
- Why I Do Not Say Hello in the Grocery, by Hedy Zimra
- An essay posted in Rookie Mag, by Hedy's talented daughter Ruby