In Memoriam: For a Sista
“What?” I asked, wondering how this could be. She was only
35. She was the most alive person I’d ever met. She vibrated with life
to the tips of her exquisitely painted acrylic nails. When I think of her, many
adjectives come to mind: tacky—she loved red and black and leopard prints,
unfortunately often in combination, and false eyelashes that perched like
tarantulas over her big brown eyes, and lace-front wigs in blonde and Lucille
Ball red, and lipstick in bright red and the dark colors of mourning—promiscuous;
combative.
She was unapologetically herself. She was raucous and raunchy.
She had a heart of gold; sterling silver pumped through her veins. She was
funny and clever and caring and supportive. When I first started working with
her, she cheerfully took me under her wing sharing with me what I needed to
know—things that weren’t mentioned in HR’s dry and out-of-date PowerPoints, or
in my vague, slightly misleading job description.
Of the many adjectives I associated with her, dead was
not one of them. Yet, if I’m honest with myself, I must admit I could never
picture a future version of her, an old her. She was too of the moment,
too much in the here and now. When I first met her, she’d struck me as
the epilogue to a fantastic story. The problem with epilogues is they are
always the end of a story. I fear I met her too late and did not know her well
enough.
As I find myself doubled over with grief—a grief I feel I
have no right to; I am not a relative or even a close friend. I was merely
someone she worked with, our lives bumped up against each other accidentally,
like a glancing blow. Yet like a powerful glancing blow, I have been left with
a persistent bruise, a permanent scar—always reminding me of her…
In my illegitimate grief, I turn once again, here, to words.
Words have always saved me. They’ve been my prayer, my ask for forgiveness, my
penance. And my salvation.
Despite the pain, I am grateful to have met her. And more
grateful for the words to express my grief.
I offer these words as a prayer, asking Heaven to open its
pearly gates wide and roll out a red carpet to receive this queen.
Rest in peace, sweet Queen.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I intentionally do not mention her
name here—out of respect for her privacy and that of her family, but also as a
reminder that she is one of a million women; she is all women. She could have been our sister, or mothers, or cousins, or neighbor, or coworker; she could also have bene out brother or uncle, or our new quiet male coworker who always seems to have a fresh bruise.
National Domestic Violence Hotline
CALL: 800-799-7233
Photo by Christopher
Campbell on Unsplash
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
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