We’re all a little poorer right now. The world’s too wide to measure or register the tiny seismic flutters of local grief but that doesn’t mean the losses aren’t real or don’t matter.
Let me tell you about a good person, a friend, who died way too young. She was a happy, unassuming sort who dreamed big but spread those dreams to those around her, with insight and humility and hope. Her name was Cindy. She had long, blazing red hair, a laugh that would infect bystanders to chuckling and infectious hope. She always knew she’d die young, and faced it. Her parents had. The rest of us didn’t accept that, didn’t want to believe, but that didn’t matter in the end. We took Cindy on her own terms. And she was right, all down the line. She knew better. And lived better.
She never cared a whoop for what was trendy or “correct”. Or if she did, she never let it matter. She unabashedly loved romances, speculative science fiction and kids. She was a chastened, realistic, zestful dreamer. She didn’t fit molds, knew it but couldn’t be otherwise. If she ever mourned the trade-offs, she never let it matter. She worked for a library, a bookmobile, taking worlds and dreams to others. Quite humble, though she gloried in it. She quietly cared for her grandmother. She never stopped laughing, or dreaming, or living. Or laughing or caring.
Until her grandmother found her dead in bed, entirely without warning. She was young, apparently healthy, just sleeping–and then she was gone. And all those wonderful, quiet Cindy dreams ended. For everybody.
We buried her today. She was just an ordinary (extraordinary) everyday person whose absence left an unexpected gaping hole. The church was packed, with Trekkers and librarians and family and readers. Her longtime, tough, hard-bitten driver–the absolute opposite of her bubbly self–served as grief-stricken but resolute pall bearer. When her coffin left the church, at the family’s request, her bookmobile led the hearse and procession to the cemetery. It’s still the midwest, and comforting how many people pulled aside, turned on their headlights or just waved her passing.
Their are no humble lives.
Thanks for a life well lived, Cindy, and rest in peace.
Veb
