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Portland, Oregon. Falling in love with the art of everything.

  • Writer's pictureRachel Sandstrom Morrison

bev.

bev was a ball of light. a friend to everyone she met and beloved by many. she was complicated, cruel at times, and hard to pin down.


bev never talked much about her childhood, preferring instead to focus on the stories of high school boys and inappropriate boys flirting with her,

or the relentless pursuit my grandpa undertook to win her over.


she loved being the center of attention,

the bright light in a room,

the person who could make anyone feel welcomed, appreciated, and loved.



bev always loved to flit over the tough topics, skimming over the surface, like light dancing on water.

she was good at it too.


it used to frustrate me, the way she wouldn't engage on a tough topic, or acknowledge how disgusting it was that her high school teacher told the girls in her class that they'd get an "A" if they sat in the front row and crossed their legs.


i was young when i knew her, but i always wanted to connect deeper with her,

to understand more about her. i imagined it was awful to have to leave your family because you were sick. what a burden that must have been to carry, and then to be treated cruelly by your adopted mother, she probably felt like she deserved it,

but fought it as hard as she could by being light, reflecting that onto others.


a disco ball is hundreds of pieces of broken glass.


its brokenness at its most innate.

it's shards and pieces that come together to make something beautiful, a dance, a fleeting moment of joy.


she used to dream of having disco balls in every room of her house, the mirrors reflecting light and rainbows all around her. she would have loved sun catchers and the way my bedroom looks on a november afternoon.


she was a hundred pieces of broken glass combined into something beautiful, a disco ball in leopard print and heels, until the day she died.


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