I never thought that one should accessorize in death. But, when I saw a blue coffin in front of me, I knew that I better make sure that some way, some day, some how, I better write down and choose a good one.

A coffin says a lot of who you are. Michael Jackson-gold coffin. James Brown-gold coffin. My older sister Hannah-fabric covered powdered blue coffin.

I do apologize for my insensitivity.

It is the grief talking.

Yesterday, I had to get ready for a funeral.

My oldest sister died.

They say that there are a lot of overtly sensitive people out there.  And I think that I am one of them. I went to visit my biological dad at his house. As soon as I went in I could feel a presence. I tried to ignore it, but I could feel myself getting light-headed. And light-headedness turned to dizziness and dizziness turned to outright sickness!

I couldn’t take it anymore. I was literally standing two feet from the spot where she died. I had to beg off and run out of the house.  I felt so bad, but Ava let me know that some people just feel more than other people when it comes to spirits and the such. I agreed and let her make me a pot of peppermint tea and chilled with an old Paul Newman movie.

An aside: Paul Newman is soo fine!!! I know that it should be was soo fine, but that kind of fine just permeates through the ages.

But, I digress.

I woke up and tried to make sense of my hair. It is long enough, but I wanted some tendrils so I added in some pieces. It was all sorts of wrong.

Ava was like why don’t you take it out? Out of frustration, I yelled, it was too late to take it out!

She looked at me and I apologized.

I told her-it is the grief talking.

I tried to gel it back and then gel it forward. And then slick it off to the side a la Megan Fox. And I kept the magazine propped up behind the faucets of the sink, but it kept on falling into my bamboo garbage.

Ava said instead of trying to look like some white girl with white hair and imagined extraordinary sex life, why don’t I just be an ordinary Black girl that I was, with Black girl’s hair and extra extra-ordinary sex life. Okay, so I put the extra-ordinary sex life in, myself.

But, of course!

I told her to get out of my face.

She looked at me and I apologized.

I told her-it is the grief talking.

I tried again with my hair. I yelled in frustration. And Ava came running from the kitchen. She reminded me again that there was no way that I was going to look like Megan Fox.  And we were going to be late.

So I yelled at her, and let her know that it didn’t matter if we were late. Hannah wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Ava looked at me and I apologized.

I told her-it is the grief talking.

“Grief talking-my-ass!!” her look said, as she walked away. Backwards, letting her look linger.

We arrived 20 minutes late. No, I don’t think that it is the “island part” in me.  I came in through the doors at the very back, and sat in the back row. No one saw us come in.  There were a ton of people. I could just make out my father and a few siblings in the front.

Just to give you a small inkling of what is my life. I have tons of family out there that have never met me, so you can just imagine their surprise when I showed up at this funeral. The pastor asked if there was anyone out there that wanted to add a few words, so I stood up. What was before me was a long path to the front of the room. To others, it was a path, to me it was a runway. I thought who could I emulate in a fast second. I thought Coco Rocha was good, but I needed the original diva. I thought of only one person-Naomi Campbell.  I threw back my shoulders and I began to  strut.

Again, it is the grief talking.

At the end of the catwalk was my father, Georgie (his real name is George) and a few of my sisters and brothers. I had only met two before. At the podium, I thought to myself, what would the man upstairs say when he was playing before a crowd like this. The man in black who I have always admired from a far. If Johnny Cash was here he would say, “Hello, I am Johnny Cash.” (Yes, he was the man in black, but don’t forget that he is now upstairs too).

I paused and look at the crowd and said, “Hello, Good Afternoon, I am Lucresia. Hannah’s youngest sister.” The crowd went abuzz! A sort of hush and then whispering went around the vast room. Ava said that it was like watching old ladies at tea-a whole lot of clucking!

And I said from memory:

I never knew my sister Hannah. I have never met her, and I am almost glad that I never did. For, she will forever remain in my mind-mystical, almost princess like; someone who should be placed on a pedestal.

When I heard that she passed. I waited until I was by myself and the tears began to spill. I wondered to myself how could I cry for someone I have never even met. And I realized I have net her, through the stories that I have shared with my father and my siblings. I see myself in her.

Before we come here from heaven, we chose to be either angels or warriors. Hannah chose to be a warrior. Someone who lived by her one rules. Someone who lived her life so that we could see it as an example.

I don’t look at her as an unfinished life. I look at her life as a story that has just begun.

I will think of her short life when I am trying to find strength to meet my goals.

I will think of her short life when I think of conquering new dreams and trying to find ways of bringing them to new heights.

Thank-you.

Then everyone clapped.

On my way back, I took a quick look at the fabric covered powdered blue coffin, and collapsed into my father’s arms and clinged onto him tightly. Tears came flowing down. I felt a lot of pain.  A kind of relief really; that this trying time was soon to be over. I strutted back to my seat and sat back down. People, can be so rude! Some people turned right around and looked at me and stared, like I was on show.

I felt like Naomi Campbell.

I met my other siblings at the grave site.  A lot of my relatives carried their brown Louis Vuitton bags to the site. Now, I know where I get it from.

I went to the house and so many people approached me. There were so many names and faces, I was trying to play connect the dots on the family tree. It was hot, and the food smells of curry goat and oxtail, although my favorite foods, were so overwhelming! I tried to sit down, but then one of my siblings followed me wanting to talk. She wanted me to smell Hannah’s lock of hair, and I’m like no thanks.

Egads!

One thing I learned Possums, is that crazy doesn’t fall far from the tree!

I had to leave. I needed more than air. I could feel as if something was trying to come back out. I didn’t even take my slippers off (I always wear bare legs and feet to “family events” so I try to carry a nice pair of slippers to wear once I arrive, I learned that from an older aunt of mine). I took up my boots in my hands and walked out the house. I could hear my father calling out to me, and all I had strength to say to Ava was tell him I am going to throw up and that I can’t talk. I staggered across the way towards my car and I had to run to the side of the car and I started to throw up.  And even when I was throwing up, my father kept on talking away trying to ask me questions about my health. I didn’t have the strength to remind him that I was kind of busy, so I let the sounds of my regurgitating remind him. Ava sent him in for a bottle water. And they were right, water does have a way to settle the stomach.

He started to cuss to me about not being included in the decisions of choosing the casket. He was so appalled that his daughter was buried in such a thing.

Now it made sense.

I agreed with him. You have to remember that my father is very debonair in the way that he presents himself. He is English after all. But, of course! I mean my other sister chose the casket and if you could see how she dressed. Well… she takes the whole 80’s things too far. Think if Rhianna did Bill Cosby.

I have been slowly nursing myself back to health. I have been watching my old tapes of the movie Notting Hill. Hugh Grant’s bubbling attitude and Julie Robert’s spongy pillowy lips breaking out in her toothy grin always make be feel better. I do love the part about the bottom stunt double and Mel Gibson’s bottom, being fuzzy and tart and all.

I know. I know. Me talking about death and Mel Gibson’s furry ass.

I do apologize.

It is the grief talking.

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