She will be remembered for the quiet Magic that followed her. The flowers that seemed as if to sprout in her hair. She wasn’t the type of girl to go to the trouble to try to ‘look pretty’ or ‘be good’. She didn’t care what others thought about her. In the summer, she shaved her head, partly because she liked to shock people out of their sleepwalking ways, but mostly just to keep cool. Her hairdresser didn’t like to cut her hair like she asked, which was very much a guy cut. She always had to negotiate each and every time, for what she desired. She was reminded that she needed to wear some lipstick, which she agreed to, but then rarely did. She always just charged her for a guy cut, since that was what she gave her.
She will be remembered for the wings that unfurled from under her shoulder blades. Sometimes, when you sat behind her in a crowded room, you would see the fabric on her shirt shudder. There was often a quiet network of whispers and finger pointing from the back of the room. She mostly kept to herself and she tried to blend in and not be noticed. She always moved through a room quickly, like the room was on fire. It was as if she might fuse to the earth if she wasn’t in constant motion.
Some folks swore that they saw her either late in the evenings when the moon was full or very early in the mornings as the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was a deep shade of blue-grey…up high in the heavens – doing loops with other smaller birds and dive bombing trees only to pull out before impact. The Ravens liked to chase and taunt her like they do a predatory Red Tail Hawk or wise old Barn Owl. It was all in a friendly play and enjoyable to watch if you happened to be awake at those hours. Most of the world was asleep in their boob tube watching habit that overtook them from sunset to sunrise, broken only by their passing out to sleep as if to dream.
She will be remembered for her unusual way of listening intently and speaking only when there was utter silence. Her voice blended in with the silence. Some words would float like a soap bubble and glisten with rainbow hues enlivening the senses. But no one could ever hold onto her words, they flew right out the window and out of the memory cells. Somehow her words were more like music, to be heard and to inspire, but then let go and let them loose. They weren’t meant for the human spectrum of hearing or knowing. They were catalysts for inner change and for starting uprisings of love. Her motto was to ” Live Love Everyday” and she walked that from the moment her feet touched down on the old oak floorboards of her weathered turn of the century farmhouse…until she passed out again and her head hit her rather flat feather pillow. She had gathered fallen feathers on the forest floor from all the birds that lived there and she swore that it made her sleep without the need for companionship. She was a loaner, agreed to never marry after the death of her third, or was it her fourth marriage. She counted it, 3 and a half. How as that? How do you have half a marriage?
She was like remembering a perfect summer day with no flies, ripe watermelon slabs laid out before you to devour, iced green tea with a fresh mint sprig floating ever so perfectly on the top. She never put anything to paper. She was to be forgotten. Her time was fleeting, her ways were odd and she might even be a tune you hum to yourself rather than someone you remember.
It was the Magic that surrounded her that you would be more likely to recall. The feeling that you got when you were in the same room. You just knew that there was a higher purpose, a grand scheme and that you and she were all apart of it. We all had roles to play and there was no doing it wrong, she made certain of this.
She always had a sideways smirk on her lips. Did she know something that we didn’t? Did she know the secrets to the Universe, like Being Present without expectations or acting without regrets? She knew how to have her glass filled to full and overflowing without feeling drained in the slightest. Did she ever really answer anyone’s questions? She said she was an open book, but how can you read something that has never and will never be written?
She will be remembered in the songs we sing and the stories we tell as we sit around the campfire. The flames rising higher and the heat almost melting faces like it melts our worries and tensions from the day as the smoke that drifts gently off into space leaving a calm and contentment deep within.
She loved music, anything with a great beat or a story to be told caught her attention. We all think she was here, but there is no proof of it. She was sort of like stories we tell small children of the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause that become real. The oddest thing we will remember is that no one ever caught her on film. Her image somehow just wasn’t there. The air was thick and the sunlight glistened, but somehow she wasn’t captured. Perhaps she wasn’t here at all.
The final proof is in the pudding, or in her case the Pies. She loved fruit pies. You could always win her over with a fresh baked Raspberry or Peach Pie. It was the best way to get her attention. They had to be sugar-free as well as grain free, crusts molded from crushed nuts and dates and the fresh fruit brimming over the top with juicy goodness. We might be able to tell she was here simply by the volumes of pies that were consumed by her. Is something missing, proof of Existence?!