thoughts of heartfelt sentiments for a joyous and kind friend

shared by Jared Seltzer, her friend from college

I searched my hard drive and found the following version of the letter I wrote, which went to print a week or so after Cyn's passing. I can't confirm whether it is the exact wording of what was published, but it's probably pretty close. Looking back on it, I'm a bit flustered by all I said; my feelings were 100% authentic, but I'm slightly chagrined by the grandiosity of my writing. I'm a fairly cynical person, loathe to wear my heart on my sleeve, and not prone to large displays of emotion. I can only chalk it up to Cindy’s radiant energy for inspiring me to express a heartfelt, unreservedly sentimental response to her accident. It's a love letter for a joyous and kind friend. I miss her today as I did then. 

[originally published in the UCLA Newspaper, The Daily Bruin, April 2003]

I learned of Cindy’s passing through e-mail. I couldn’t make sense of what I read as I sat at my computer at 12:15 a.m. last Thursday. A cacophony rang in my head as I read it again and again, maybe 30 times. 

My body reacted to what my mind would not. My muscles seized, legs twitched, and my hands sought to cover my mouth in disbelief. I couldn’t focus. When you lose someone so abruptly, you struggle to remember whether they were even real. Whether the pain you’re feeling is connected to someone or just a nightmare. 

In the following pre-dawn hours, I scoured photo albums, records, anything, desperately seeking proof of our shared experiences. I needed those artifacts. I tore through old USAC and ASUCLA binders, recovering scraps of paperwork with her smudged, hand scrawled notes. I scoured inconsequential e-mails. Recalling a flippant phone message she left recently, I cursed myself for deleting it. 

I found a few creased photographs. Why weren’t there more? Why weren’t we better friends? Best friends? Why weren’t we hanging out last Wednesday night far from the 405 freeway, from that drunk driver? I sat consumed with these unbearable thoughts until dawn gradually approached and they began to subside. And then, I began to remember.

I remembered sitting alone with her on the edge of a lake. A chilly afternoon breeze splashes water on our bare feet dangling over the dock. A sudden gust whips my towel into the air, flinging it into the choppy water below. She laughs as I strain to fish it out with a stick. It is getting colder but we stay on the dock, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, enjoying the solitude. 

I remembered an Arizona nightclub. Her face in close-up, eyes closed, broad smile, thin wet strands from her bangs cling to her cheeks. She dances away in her own world. Her boundless enthusiasm dispels my usual self-consciousness. We are happy. 

I remembered reviewing budgets for USAC late into the night; resting in the backstage shade at JazzReggae Festival; whispering and passing irrelevant notes at an ASUCLA Board of Directors meeting as I struggle to keep from laughing aloud. 

I remembered the Getty at sundown. I scamper around the garden in the fading light snapping ridiculous pictures while she waits patiently. I turn the camera on her and she springs to life, striking goofy poses. She makes that face that I absolutely adore, where she looks at you, cracks a smile tinged with disbelief, mouth agape, and opens her eyes wide in the most expressive way imaginable.  

I talked to her on the phone just last week. She wrestled with her plans for this quarter. Should she squeeze out every last drop of her final weeks at UCLA or distance herself from campus to prepare for the next stage of her life? She exhaled a nervous stream of words alluding to deeper hopes and aspirations, excited to be back with her boyfriend, dreaming of teaching in Japan. She mulled over the possibilities, positive and determined. We talked until conversation seemed exhausted, that we have nothing else to say. She ended by telling me that she’ll “worry about that stuff later.” We set a time to meet next week. We are going to meet next week. 

Now one week later, inexplicably, my pain and rage has eased into contentment, even bliss. I am not religious, but I cannot describe this progression as anything less than miraculous. I no longer feel fear or anger. I no longer ask “Why?” or “How?” this could have happened. Agonizing thoughts and painful memories are replaced by sweet recollections, tears increasingly replaced by smiles and even laughter. I feel a deep regret for those who never had the opportunity to know her and I feel so blessed to be one of the many that did know her, and am the better for it. Still, the sadness remains. I cannot stop thinking of Cyn. I want to share so many more things with her. The finality is devastating.

The Daily Bruin has hailed her exceptional contributions and celebrated her grand accomplishments. Her legacy as a student leader is matchless. Yet it pains me to know that someday, despite our best intentions, no matter what we say or what rooms and scholarships in Kerckhoff we name after her, that people will fail to appreciate who she was as a person.  Memories fade and commemorations lose their luster. I accept this as natural but then ask myself, what is the meaning in all of this? Cynthia provides an answer in the loving attention that she lavished on friend, family, and stranger alike. She never stopped thinking of other people, lending assistance with both light brushes and broad, sweeping strokes. She touched so many lives in so many different ways. For me, it was those small things that made her special, that made her a great friend. There never was one big event; it was always a series of tiny isolated moments that tied together to create a magnificent life. Such moments exist independent of life and death, their purity timeless and indestructible. Cindy appreciated the preciousness of those moments and embraced all the uncertain ones to come. As amazing as I now realize that was, that was just how she lived, how we all should live. That was just Cyn.