Dear Beloved Reader,
She feels an unsettling rumbling in her chest before she feels the tremor beneath her feet. She opens her face to the sky, which is now thick with billowing plumes of pearly smoke. She wants to sink to her knees into the hardened mud and uneven rock. Escape feels futile.
But as she peers down at her wide-eyed boy, tucked into her lap with his sticky palms clasped tight over his tiny ears—his armor from the clamor of the explosion—she knows she must try. As she rises to run, murmuring to her boy to bury his head in the crater of her shoulder, she looks to the distance.
As a girl, she was spoon-fed fables of expiration in the cradle of twilight’s embrace. Each word a bittersweet elixir, they injected her with whispers of caution before her dreams unfurled. They pointed out her window, towards the mountain that overlooked their small village—its summit kissed by stars and shrouded in a blanket of moonlight. They pressed her small finger against the window’s glass, guiding it along the faint fissure etched into the distant mountain. They told her about the day that the fissure cracked in two. They told her how from the womb of the molten earth, a volcano was born. A birth that harkens death.
Peeking back, through the descending veil of dark soot, she could see fiery heat cascading down the mountainside, like tears from the mountain’s eye.
It had only erupted once, they told her—their village still haunted by the soft glow of its scarring fire. As a child, she had always imagined the pulsing breath of volcanic destruction to be furious and damning. She imagined that the land itself tensed in preparation for the primal roar from the burgeoning below.
But as she pushed through the crowds of chaos of people crying, running, digging holes, and saying final prayers or goodbyes, she couldn’t help but find it beautiful. Peeking back, through the descending veil of dark soot, she could see fiery heat cascading down the mountainside, like tears from the mountain’s eye. As the raw fierceness of molten rivers carved itself into the earth, she felt the ground beneath her sigh.
She slowed her pace to match the waning pulse of the ground beneath her. Her boy stirred against her tear-stained shoulder. With a gentle stroke, she ran her hand through the tousled locks of his hair—reassurance for him or for her, she did not quite know. Her eyes welled too as they shared a bittersweet smile. No backward glance, no regret, as they sank to the ground, their tears mingling with the dust of uncertainty. Buildings bowed to the volcano’s wrath, crumbling like fragile dreams. But they were ready to embrace oblivion.
And as their bodies melded with the ash-laden air, the love of a mother remained
Though in her heart, her desire for her son’s survival waged war, she knew they would soon be consumed by the tempest’s relentless fury. In the shadow of their imminent demise, she clung to her hope, her son. She clutched him close to her womb, planting a final kiss on his forehead—the seal of a mother’s love. Even as she felt the violent current of the molten river crash against her body, she hoped their souls would endure. And as their bodies melded with the ash-laden air, the love of a mother remained, an imprint on our shared body—the earth—left to be found a millennia later.
The final Iris issue of this year “Imprints” explores preserved sites of embodied and disembodied memory. The volcano, as a site of creation and preservation, rather than ruination, reveals how physical bodies and spaces may deteriorate over time, but memory will always survive in the affective realm. Love, particularly, survives and thrives across time and space. The crystalline ash of this mother and son serve to resurrect and immortalize their shared love. Their legacies will always rise again.
Grief is a manifestation of an abundance of love.
Lindsey Smith opens our final issue with her poignant poem, “I am Human and I was Here,” revealing the subtle imprint that we leave on this earth as humans. Susannah Baker’s elegy to her beloved passed cat “To Mercury,” also tenderly explores the impact that we have on one another, exhibiting how grief is also a manifestation of an abundance of love.
In Cassie Davis’ “UVA in the Era of Shannon Library,” she explores the future of legacy-making and the politics of remembrance at our University. While Dallas looks to the future of memory creation, Ella Powell and Jordan Coleman turn their attention to the past.
In Powell’s interview “Join My Mom and Me for a Coffee,” she reminisces on memories of motherhood and daughterhood, unearthing the imprints they’ve left on each other. Coleman’s “We’ve Got Mail” places her past middle school self and her present college self in conversation with each other across time, reflecting about the ways she’s grown and stayed the same.
Graduating Iris author Eryn Rhodes leaves her imprint on us, closing this issue with her final op-ed “Let's Talk About Title IX.” Rhodes chronicles how national Title IX regulations fail to address student needs and as students, it is our duty to our fellow students to work to improve those regulations.
Yet even as I bid farewell, I know Iris will always remain a part of me, just as I will always remain a devoted reader to Iris.
Every moment, every interaction, etches an indelible mark upon our being. These imprints reverberate across ourselves, akin to ripples upon the surface of an endless sea. Iris is one of those enduring marks on my soul. Iris has been a huge part of my life since the end of my first year, and I have been so lucky for the opportunity to build a home amidst these talented writers. Now, as I am entering my fourth and final year at UVA, bittersweet uncertainty lingers as I prepare to part ways with Iris. Yet even as I bid farewell, I know Iris will always remain a part of me, just as I will always remain a devoted reader to Iris.
I am not only eternally indebted to these writers for putting their faith in my edits and for their willingness to experiment each issue, but also for imparting their wisdom in ways they may never realize. Whenever St. Patrick’s Day rolls around, thoughts of Cassie will dance through my mind. Tending to my plants will always evoke memories of Susannah, her grandfather, and his green thumb. Every Barstool Sports Tik Tok I swipe past will bring to mind Eryn's powerful presence. Every coffee date with my mother will remind me of Ella’s whimsy that she inherited from her own mom. The electric energy of a live concert will forever remind me of Bailey. Caroline's bravery in vulnerability will inspire me whenever I find myself facing my own fears. Homesickness will always summon memories of Lindsey and her requiem. Each time a K-pop melody fills the air, Jordan will resound within me. And whenever I let loose on the dance floor or savor a lemon drop, Cheyenne’s spirit will be right there with me.
I hope you continue to allow Iris the privilege of leaving its mark on you, just as it has on me.
Also, to Miriella—elegiac poet and playwright extraordinaire—I am deeply grateful for your unwavering dedication to Iris. Entrusting you with the editorship next year fills me with pride. I also extend my heartfelt thanks to the beloved Mary, whose belief in me has been unwavering. Your trust and willingness to take chances on me have meant the world, and your storytelling prowess will always inspire me. To the incredibly talented artists Autumn, Judy, and Daphenie, your contributions breathe life into our pages, reminding us of Iris's growth and the possibilities of its future. Leigh Ann, your steadfast commitment to Iris, your advocacy, and your determination to see us through to publication are truly commendable. And to Smritee and the social media team, your efforts are the vital link connecting Iris to its readership. I will forever be indebted to these individuals and to Iris for instilling in me a deep love for storytelling and community building.
Lastly, to our cherished readers, none of this would be possible without you. Your engagement and support make every moment of this journey worthwhile. I hope you continue to allow Iris the privilege of leaving its mark on you, just as it has on me.
As we close this chapter of Iris and turn the page to new beginnings, may the imprints of this issue guide us forward, lighting the path with the flicker of shared stories and shared love.
With all my love,
Jasmine <3
