IN MEMORIAM: ELISE BUCHMAN

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I have sat in front of this screen, trying to write about you, how to talk about you,

how you opened my soul, how beloved you were by everyone you touched. It is

difficult not to cry, but I can't. I want everyone to know you through my words.

The memories come flooding.

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When I met you, my mother had just died in her sleep and alone. I escaped to a

reading at Perch, where Pam was supposed to host, but there you were in her place,

hosting. I read a poem about my mom's death, and after you came up to me and

told me it was beautiful and moving. I looked into your gray green eyes and heard

your voice: a mixture of girl and woman. I noticed you were short, like my mom,

but also smart, funny, adventurous, and joyful. It was your joy that had me wanting

more, and the next time I got to see you I asked if we could kiss. Later that same

day, when we were intimate, you told me you loved me. It was mutual.

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And so began our journey, our romp through New York City, going to readings,

poetry shows, my first ever Yankee game. After a while, you shared the chronic

pain in your spine, the injections you needed to have, and I caressed you, held you,

professed I would care for you and your pain. You told me I was the first man who

ever said that. I was proud.

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And even prouder to watch you in the world—a real Renaissance woman, teaching,

acting, and performing. You taught young children poetry in Brownsville, the place

I grew up in—six degrees of separation. You spoke French and Spanish and had

three degrees. Your poems were remarkable, and you helped me put my first poetry

book together, though boy were you a tough editor. Not only did you help me, but

you helped others, too, since service was in the blood of your family. One time we

were walking on Broadway and there was a car crash. A man came out of the car

and fell. You comforted that man, took care of the blood gushing from his

forehead, and called 911. You were the only one who helped him, and it was at that

moment I thought, she is my forever.

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You moved to Missouri to be close to your folks, which was odd for me, but I

went along for the ride—and stayed. After your mom died you said you needed me.

We went from Nebraska to Missouri, a house I am in now, that I grew to love since

you were in it. We had two dogs, Kirby and Reka, who became country dogs.

When they passed, we fostered more dogs—five rescues. You found ways to

create—with a five and dime drama collective and work with children’s theater.

You were always amazing, and I was a part of your wonderful trajectory. I called

you Sparky. You called me Poohiepie. We planned to marry and were saving our

money, but the remarkable life we had built continued.

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In early June 2023, you stayed in bed, saying you did not feel well. I dialed 911

when you didn’t seem to get better, and they had to transport you to Springfield to

a bigger hospital. I visited every day. So did family and friends. I prayed you would

awaken, until the doctor announced—on a bright, sunny day, you were dead. I

raged and cried and stayed by your bed, professing my love, You were all I had.

Now I gaze at the redbuds that are blooming, the dogwoods and wild strawberries

and the roses—all we planted, but no Elise to revel in their beauty. There are so

many people here who mourn you, members of our Church, the pied pipers who

also spoke of their love for you. There was a service at Roaring River State Park,

and all our friends shared stories of your special kindness, your inner beauty. The

girls, our dogs, our babies, still look for you' I can still smell you in every corner of

the house, as can our doggies.

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It's not the same. I still weep, rage, and mourn your special self, which lives on

daily in my heart and in the nature that surrounds us. I write about you so you will

stay alive inside me, and to the world. This is what I am doing now, my beloved

Elise, allowing you to live on for the rest of the world to see. I love you so—

forever and a day. Indeed, you are cherished and missed.

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Charles Butler