Fresh Starts and Bitter Ends
There's something undeniably soulful and communal about the RVA Big Market on Saturday mornings: crowds of people, adorable dogs, squishy babies in strollers, and rows of farm-fresh produce, handmade crafts, handpicked flowers, music, and food trucks serving up Richmond's finest treats—all under the cool, verdant canopy of Richmond's Bryant Park. It's not just a weekly routine; it's a shared ritual, a benediction to bless the start of the weekend. So far, it seems the RVA Big Market is practically religion.
But the 24 hours leading up to market day had me contemplating time--how we choose to spend our limited time on this earth. Perhaps it was the stark contrast of the day before, which began at a funeral, where the fragility of life felt palpable, reminding me just how fleeting it all is.
Those thoughts hit home later when, after the funeral, I wandered over to the Visual Arts Center of Richmond for the opening of A Constellation of Blackness. Veronica Jackson, a brilliant architect-turned-artist, laid out a striking visual narrative of how her grandmother spent her time—decades of her life, printed on rows of black time cards, each one detailing the repetitive tasks that consumed her existence: cooking, cleaning, caring, birthing, burying. Only when you leaned in, up close, did the weight of her invisible labor come into focus.
Constellation of Blackness by Veronica Jackson at VisArts runs until Oct 27, 2024
That night, after mourning a woman who'd lived too little and left too soon, I found myself standing in front of another woman's story—Veronica's grandmother, a woman who'd lived long enough to bury both her son and husband, her life consumed by the relentless demands of care. The time cards told the same story, year after year: 350+ hours a month dedicated to others. It made me wonder—who had it easier? But maybe the real question was: is there ever an “easy” when it comes to being a woman?
I escaped into the Révéler on Cary Street just before midnight to check out the Witching Hour. I hoped the cocktails and storytelling performances would be a fun distraction. The last reading was The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin, it was paired with a drink made from artichoke liquor. A sip left a bittersweet taste in my mouth while Chopin's words echoed through the intimate speakeasy-style room. It was a story about a woman named Mrs. Mallard who briefly tasted freedom after learning of her husband's death, then died shortly afterward "of heart disease—of the joy that kills."
The irony was deafening. After a day spent reflecting on lives shaped by sacrifice, here were Chopin's words, reminding me that freedom for women often comes at a cost, even in fiction.
I slipped into bed around 2 a.m., my mind spun from the day's events. Between the funeral, the exhibit, and the boozy bedtime tales, I couldn't shake the feeling that time—how we spend it, how it slips away—was haunting me more than any ghost story could. I kissed my kids goodnight, knowing I'd be up early; my market bags were ready by the front door. Because in Richmond, no matter how late Friday night goes or how grim the week, there's always a fresh start on Saturday mornings.
Last cocktail of the night at the Révéler