I imagined the velvet and lace finery she must’ve left behind, the pages of notes in her round, precise cursive for her next book of critical theory, the hush of her ordered rooms, the students still living at the vulnerable precipice from which she’d rescued me, and it slayed me. A friend took me out kayaking in Red Hook’s harbor to cheer me up but I found myself shaking as the sun set on its dirty waters, imagining the will and misery required to plunge herself forever into the dark mystery of a river.

If you read one thing on the internet today, please read Lisa Rosman’s beautiful piece on her indieWIRE blog New Deal Sally, weaving together the film Father of My Children, mentorship, and death. It made me cry.