by Quin Browne
Draped in black, we stood huddled around the hole dug in the semi-frozen earth, the beauty of the first warm day of the year too bright for the occasion we were there to attend. The velvet lined box looked minute so far below, the first bits of dirt hitting it were muffled, more like dust motes landing on a table. Connie's voice lifted into a hymn, with the ceaseless wind picking up the pure tones, bringing them skyward, where they lingered for a moment before they, too, died. My daughter stepped forward, her voice was clear and strong as she gave the eulogy for her childhood friend, Irik... and her eyes filled with tears that painted the words with sorrow. It was over... we left the spot to go back to the house... to do those things one does after a funeral; chat, eat, move forward with life. I stopped for a moment, and lifted my face to the sun, giving thanks for the warmth that had thawed the earth enough to get that mangy little hamster corpse out of my freezer at last; then I, too, hurried to get out of the wind.
Quin Browne's full catalog is here, which includes anything mentioning her name, and that video. (She places all the blame on the director who shall remain nameless *coughROBcough*.) Her time in New York has been grand, letting her find her voice, her stride, and Six Sentences, all of which she is eternally grateful for... the last most of all. ("So many of us first spread our wings here," she said. A message for Quin, whose wings helped put 6S on the map: THANK YOU and BEST OF LUCK in your new life!)