Donna – The 7 Memories of Seeing him on Sundays

Just about a week before we never saw her again, Donna did two very strange things.

First, she died her long, brown hair blonde.  It didn’t match with her freckles or flannel shirts, but she followed an urge to do something dramatic.

Then, she decided to paint the walls in her bedroom black.  In our hectic household, doing such things were allowed, because the “old man” hadn’t entered our bedrooms in over a decade, and mom believed in creative expression.

The room was walk-in-closet small, with one little window overlooking a large oak tree and the driveway.  The oak tree had a strong, fat branch which had served as a bridge for many a boyfriend, jumping from the adjoining rooftop into her window late at night.

Her bedroom door was ill-fitting, like a lid that doesn’t close tight.  There was just an open doorway when mom and dad bought the house.  Craving privacy, Donna enlisted a couple neighborhood guys to help her lift a door from an old abandoned house in the Rochelle Meadows woods.  They hung it in her doorway, slightly cock-eyed from the hinges, but it did the trick.  She had her sanctuary from little sisters and the enemy, which was anyone over 18.

Her single bed mattress was on the floor.  She never liked the idea of being like anyone else.  And if mom did even one thing right, it was that she let us be different.

Donna stole a can of glossy black from the back of the old man’s VW van, along with a paint roller and brushes.

She swept her new bleach-blonde hair up into a pony tail and started painting.  All four walls, from ceiling to floor, transformed black.  The only part left white was her ceiling, which had become a place for local graffiti, with sayings scrawled across it, such as:

We are the people our parents warned us about” and “Love is the answer, what was the question” and “Lonnie was here.”

One of the last things I remember seeing of Donna was a black streak of paint in her ponytail.  Her head swirling quickly, a glimpse of her nose.  After she died, it was hard for me to picture her face.

I still don’t think of her as a blonde, though she has appeared in many of my dreams that way.

Donna died at age 16 in 1976.  There’s a huge collection of poetry she wrote before she died.  This is one.

THE 7 MEMORIES OF SEEING HIM ON SUNDAYS

1 – Driving down the highway –

going to see you.

The wind blows on me –

it feels good.

Nothing feels better

than being lazy

in a  warm car –

with the window

a fraction of an inch open;

the wind blowing on

myself.

Feeling good.

Feeling happy.

Free.

Not free like a bird;

cause I’m not flying –

today.

Not right now;

anyway.

2 – Red, green, gold, and brown

colors pass through my eyes.

Clumps of bright red –

are the prettiest;

to me.

It’s the trees.

They’re turning;

changing.

Changing from their green summer clothes,

to fabulous different

color arrangements.

Keep on changing –

I love it.

I love you.

3 – Just woke up.

Feel good;

After an early morning nap.

My muscles feel dead,

like they’ve been electrocuted

together.

My toes feel slightly cold;

but I like it.

I like it.

Yea –

I like it.

Don’t even mind

my ears popping

going through the mountains,

cause I’m getting there.

Closer and closer –

I’m getting there.

Closer…

close…r…

4 – The mist

hangs low over the valley –

causing your senses

to be out

of order;

for it looks like a sea –

with uprising waves of

cotton candy.

Looks so yummy –

think I’ll eat it.

But I couldn’t.

Just couldn’t.

No –

can’t.

5 – Holding you close to me,

me loving you,

you loving me –

it –

it’s just so…

beautiful.

You’re beautiful,

I’m beautiful,

we’re beautiful,

everyone’s beautiful.

But most of all –

You’re beautiful.

So…

beautiful.

6 – On the road again,

only minutes after

getting a good-bye kiss

from you,

the last one –

until…

I come see you again;

next Sunday.

I thought that

if I held you

long enough

and tight enough,

we wouldn’t have to

separate.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t,

work.

You’re gone,

gone…

7 – As the days go by

I’ll think of you;

remember you,

and love you.

Love you.

Love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Love –

you.

Only you,

you!

D. Lehr 10/5/75

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5 Responses

  1. It’s nice to see she she was so happy here. Btw- my bedroom was black and white as well-lol .It must be a 70’s thing.

  2. her work could be lyrics….. how did she die, she was only a baby?

  3. Spunky,

    I am touched by the melancholia here. But what exactly happened to Donna? You have not written about the details. Maybe if it is not too painful, we would like to know about it. We are sorry for your loss.
    We really are. Time heals wounds, they say.

  4. Time does heal wounds….but scars always remain. I am so happy you are sharing all of this. I can remember feeling her saddness when being in her room after she had passed….it must be horrible to feel that way and reaching out in little ways that no one can really grasp in the whole skeem of things. You just never think it will be your child, or sister, or friend. Children take on so much, esp these days and they have access to so much information and technology that as parents, and sisters and friends we cant even begin to monitor or realize or imagine. I will hold my girl a little tighter and listen a little deeper and try to create more time to be a part of it all. And hope that I too maintain the openess of your Mom, it’s really hard sometimes. And it all passes so quickly….all of it!! Love ♥

  5. Thanks for the comments, everyone. The story will unfold as I post more. All details will be revealed over time. Thanks for following.

    PS: This is not a painful story for me to tell. I dealt with Donna’s death decades ago. These are memories that are rich in my mind and that I find more fascinating than emotional. I am at complete peace with Donna’s death. My spiritual belief is that there is no death, only a transition of energy. We are all connected, even when separated physically.

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