In Loving Memory of Cassandra Marie Smith, 1980-2020

F

or me, Cassie’s life began in March 2020, when she first moved into the apartment next door to the one I have lived in for over eight years. Due to the global pandemic, her first introduction wasn’t in person, but by leaving her published book of poetry, “u&i”, on my doorstep. Because ultimately, Cassie’s best form to communicate  and envelope people into her world, was through her writing. It was how she courted potential suitors…it was how she soothed crying friends…intrigued strangers. I had never read anything like Cassie’s poetry before, which was more like a fever dream and less like anything else. I was stunned. It made me the more eager to actually find out more about who she is.

I myself, an amateur writer, wrote the following to help me through my grief over losing Cassie:

Cassie was a dreamer.  The distinction between reality and dreaming was always blurred. She existed in the place between worlds. Cassie is one of a kind, an unparalleled mystic. I remember the moment she careened to a stop on my doorstep, covered in dust from her travels, in her patterned vintage dress, bright red pigtail braids held by a purple bandanna. Her soft eyes sparkled over her mask, daring me.

Cassie was a dreamer.  The distinction between reality and dreaming was always blurred. She existed in the place between worlds. Cassie is one of a kind, an unparalleled mystic. 

I had long forgotten how to dream by the time we met. I was mesmerized by her treasures, her rambles, and her patchwork quilts draped haphazardly. She was wild-grown, full of mischief; she was friends with fear. My life is terrifying and I am simply attempting to survive, so how did she end up here with me? And why? The exotic aroma of incense, oils and cigarettes, fuming from her apartment, was intoxicating. I had no idea what to make of her at times, was she mad or actually magical? She delighted in the extraordinary, and obscure.  She found beauty in discarded imperfections and hand me down memories.  She had shelves upon shelves of collections.  She collected misfits and broken pieces, so it is no surprise she collected me too.

She was a wildflower. Only after she was gone, could I see just how she sparkled. A witch by her own definition. Her small hands were so delicate, her gentle feet so quiet. I had to train my ear to hear her words, adjust my eyes to really see her.

There were things about her that baffled me and felt like they couldn’t possibly be explained. Such as, the way she stumbled over 4 leaf clovers everywhere she walked, and tucked them inside any available nook. Is it any wonder, that as I leafed through the brittle pages of her notebooks, retracing her scribbles, those four and five leaf clovers tumbled out from the pages into my lap? I have searched desperately for a four leaf clover my entire life, ever since learning about them as a child. I stared in disbelief at her collection of hundreds. She told me I must speak to them in order to let them know it was safe to come out. She had studied the science behind these clover mutations, you see, and learned to identify where they grow.

I took her to the pumpkin patch. She wore her brand new adventure boots. We had endured agonizing weeks of thick black wildfire smoke covering the California sky, long torturous months of global pandemic, and the world gone awry. We jumped into my car and drove in masks to the pumpkin farm. She talked and talked. It was difficult for me to follow along and still find my way into the hills.  We discussed her upcoming birthday, I wanted to get her an ice cream cake. She wondered if I was taking her to the old cemetery. I wasn’t. The pumpkining was disappointing and we were both crushed. Our spirits were so broken by this experience, she held her little pumpkin and sobbed in the middle of the gravel. I was unsure whether to give comfort or safe space. “I just had to cry about a pumpkin” she said, wiping tears from her cheeks. I told her I understood her pain, and I did. Afterward back at home with her pumpkins, she got out her suitcase full of black and white photos and began telling me stories from her past, which to her, was still just as fresh and real, as if it all had happened yesterday.

When she was gone, I marveled at her cupboards full of perfectly arranged, chipped, mismatched antique dishes. Dainty flowered teacups, saucers, and bowls that will never again hold her food. The sense of loss consumed me, and when I looked at the palace she had built around her: walls of books, towers of beautifully placed trinkets, it felt like the world had lost its magic forever. She is more than just her belongings or her clothing, her writing or her story. Cassandra Marie is, and will forever be, indescribable and a mystery. Cass. Violet Edison. How is it possible for a unicorn to suddenly disappear?  One can only hope that we will encounter her again someday, on this journey or the next.

One of the last things Cassie did was hand me a stack of poetry books, knowing I was having a rough time at life and needed guidance; she was sure those books would help.

One of the last things Cassie did was hand me a stack of poetry books, knowing I was having a rough time at life and needed guidance; she was sure those books would help.

I learned so much more about her in her passing, through her collections of writing and collections of people. I wish to carry that legacy- keeping her spirit alive through everyone who reads her work. It’s what she would be most honored to be known for. That and her hugs, her genuine unconditional love, her own individual brand of mysticism and mystery, and pies.

Cassandra Marie Smith (https://moloprojects.org/) was a poet and visual artist. She exhibited her book u&i and photography installations in Oakland, San Francisco, Sacramento, Portland, Chicago, Denver, and Memphis. Various writings of her poetry have appeared in The Offending Adam, comma, poetry, Saginaw, Joyland, The Medium via The Volta, Pilgrimage, Glitterpony, With+Stand, and others.

Cassie studied art, photography, and writing all throughout her young life, but was also very drawn to science and mathematics. When she first began to pursue her higher education, she went to UC Santa Cruz to study chemistry.  When her calling came to study energy in other forms,  she transferred to Mills College, a progressive women’s college in Oakland, California. There she found her community, that fully embraced her identity. She studied book arts and creative writing, and also earned her Master’s Degree in Poetry.  Cassie was in the process of furthering her education, applying for Phd programs for poetry.

She, a sincere altruist, was devoted to the fight for racial justice, women’s rights, LGBTQ rights: equality, inclusion, their evolution.  She was an educator for disadvantaged youth, in various art and writing programs. She collaborated with creatives all over the world; writing and editing plays, manuscripts, screenplays, novels, and designing the covers of their books.

Cassie saw the world through a uniquely magnificent lense only she could bring into focus. She left a profound impact on everyone who knew her, worked with her; not just in her untimely passing, but in how she lived her day to day life.  She brought you words of hope, when you thought there weren’t any left.  She brought unconditional support, to whomever needed it.  She was a traveler, an adventurer, a nomad. Always moving to new parts of the country, finding inspiration in new communities, ways of life, and love. She inspired a plethora of people and everyone loved creating with her, giving with her.  Her generosity had no bounds.

Although the world has been dimmed by this loss of her, there is a deeper luminescence knowing she is still here in the spirit of all things.  Her writing will continue to deepen every dreamer.