Beryl Singleton Bissell
On September 18, one week to the day after the catastrophic
events of 9/11—when the World Trade Towers went down in
flames and she drove five hours to be with me—my beautiful,
raven-haired daughter Francesca was shot and killed. She was
twenty-four years old. Her death remains an open case in the
files of the Homicide Unit of the Minneapolis Police Department.
I have been a columnist for the Cook County News Herald
for the past seven years. When Francesca died, I stopped writing.
When several months later I tried again to write, I found
that my thoughts could move in only one direction—toward
my daughter’s death. Rather than fight this inclination,
I began to write about her death and how it had affected me
and our family. I didn’t realize what a healing process
this writing would be for me and for those who faithfully
read my columns. In writing I was, unknowingly, practicing
the Art of Recovery.
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