Image by Katie Marshall.
"I was thirteen when Kurt Cobain died, and entirely more interested in the Jurassic Park soundtrack than Nirvana. I watched the MTV coverage of his death with my mother, who sat in a recliner ignoring a novel in her lap and saying over and over that it was so sad, that it was just like Jimi Hendrix. “You’re gonna remember this,” she warned, knowing I was still too young. She grew up in the sixties, an era whose narrative lingered like the sounds of a carnival after you’ve left. Catastrophic deaths had mile-marked her youth: JFK, MLK, Marilyn, Janis, Jimi. She paired each tragedy with a coordinate in space-time where/when she had received the news, and the result was an archive of snow-globe moments, each paused in the ether of their impending resonance.
Kurt was my first such tragedy and there I was on my living room floor, sitting on my feet, my hand deep in a can of Pringles. I was supposed to remember that forever.”