We never know when certain moments will take hold.
We may think those moments or picture opportunities are more to add to our digital pictures we mean to print, the scrapbooks we put together, or a time when our minds are unencumbered by the world’s requirements of us.
On rare occasions, those moments transform into the iconic, mythical, and legendary.
Like most mothers, I take pride in my children’s pictures. I have multiple favorites of Hayes and Corrie.
As one former student from my last school wrote to me after Corrie died, “Everyone knew how much you loved your little girl.”
In December 2019, I made one of Corrie’s school pictures into a badge to wear on her birthday.
This was the picture we chose for her grave marker, and for her portrait on her final farewell.
But Corrie would not want to be remembered for her school picture anymore than she’d want to be thought of for the way in which she left the Earth. If anything, I was upset in September 2019 with the fact someone brushed her hair behind her ears.
I love my mother, but she’ll admit she never did anything with my hair as a child. I walked out of the house hating the brown mop on my head. It was wavy and untamed. I never knew which direction my hair would go, and I didn’t know how to take care of it. I swore to myself if I ever had her daughter, her hair would speak of its worth in gold, and the care I put into it.
Corrie’s hair was just one part of her, but in every picture, her hair was a beautiful addition to her essence.
As spring approaches, I experience moments of apprehension. In the last three weeks, my husband, John, and I have been surprised by the roots of life growing within our hearts again.
We have sought ways to keep Corrie’s memory alive, as she would wish.
We speak about the ways we honor her, and we talk about her as casually as parents discuss their living children. We speak of her not as a piece of history, but as the breath you must experience outside when the first daffodils bloom.
On Wednesday night, I dreamed I’d asked an artist to paint a picture each year of Corrie’s life to see what she would look like as she grew. When I woke up, I realized I didn’t need to do that because I see all the ways I embed Corrie’s life into my writing. She appears in my poetry, and her essence appears in the very Young Adult novel, I’m writing, that she loved.
“Will you stay in this universe with me?” Sky asked her daughter. “No, because we must learn to live without each other for a time,” Ahyoka said, “but only for a time.”
from The book of the sky and the rise of the rinsed by rebecca t. dickinson
The excerpt above is the first part I’ve ever shared from the backstory of my Young Adult work-in-progress, The Rise of the Rinsed, as for various reasons I try to keep the work private until I’m ready to seek a publisher. Corrie believed in it, and my writing is how I keep her legend alive.
For all the writing and the pictures I love, there is only one picture that defines the moment I’ve written before: “Her impact is such as legends make of kings.”
Today marks one year, since I took the pictures of Corrie bringing flowers on the front porch to me. It is one year today when I’d explained to my children that I had to start planning to teach my students from home. March 13, 2020 makes one year, since I’d taken a picture I’d assumed would become a framed portrait in our house and featured prominently in scrapbooks.
The picture became the one that would show Corrie’s “impact as such as legends make of kings.”
Just as a different experience caused me to feel winter in spring 2019, a blizzard and an unprecedented hurricane ripped through us in spring 2020. Once again, spring came when our daughter’s unexpected death brought us winter.
I could not come to life last spring, summer, nor in the fall or winter. But my amazing co-workers from school and in the district got together. They asked artist Jennifer King Camp to take the March 13, 2020 picture, and do the beautiful portrait as shown in our family’s holiday 2020 photo.
I’d thought with spring returning that a depression would resurge. While I know I will have my moments of grief when I cry my eyes out because she’s not at my side, the promise of her portrait, the gift from my co-workers, Jennifer’s incredible talent, and the legend of Corrie that it promotes breathes new life into all of us.
It’s just taken time.
The picture of Corrie that I took one year ago today is the greatest one I’d ever taken. It was taken in a moment when the world felt on edge, and COVID-19 started taking life. It was taken in a time when we saw hope diminish, and Corrie brought life to the front doorstep.
This legendary image of my daughter defines her spirit, shows her unrelenting joy, and her determination that death is not a defeat. At winter’s heels, the daffodils blossom.
Another artist, Roger Ballas, created his interpretation of Corrie from the picture I took. I was very appreciative of this gift, too. I gave it to my mother as a birthday present in December, since we had Jennifer King Camp’s portrait. There isn’t anything greater I could’ve given my mother.
The March 13th picture of Corrie reminds us some moments are not just for the scrapbooks or digital pictures we keep on our devices. It reminds us spring will return with the very joy of which romantic poets, even me, write even if we think it will not.
Words by Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 
Reblogged this on Come to Corrie's Corner and commented:
Part of education is learning to rebuild yourself after the world forever changed during the era of COVID-19.
We are more than the input and output of grades.
As teachers, we are more than the fear and tears of data points.
We learn from our professional and personal moments.
My daughter, Corrie, was and is my greatest teacher. One year after I took the iconic picture of her that stands as a testament to her life, I have learned of her determination that death is not a final defeat.
Lovely blog