This is my hipster cousin that I would brag about. She lived in Portland and jumped off a bridge this January at 12:17 PM; that also happens to be her birthday. Even though by all means of physic she should have been squished like a bug on the street, she wasn’t. She was just like she was in this picture. She’s the reason I listen to Bassnectar and the Temper Trap and Ratatat and so much more. People close to her saw humming birds in frozen gardens and inexplicably the day she died, I couldn’t get her out of my head. I don’t really have much else to say about her because I didn’t know her as well as I wanted to. I was so intimidated by all the cool, man. But she was so sweet when I talked to her. Always with the book reviews and the music reccomendations and the memes and Potter-love and hearts and smiley face when I least expected them. I miss the once in a while conversation we’d have every month or so. The bullshit plan to go to Galveston one of these days when she was in Houston visiting her mom and so was I, visiting my aunt. I tried to picture it being lots of fun, but I was scared to go, and mentally I made a note to make sure I lost some weight before that happened. Intimidated by all the awesome I thought she was. That she was. I had always been a little jealous of the perfect inbetween shade of brown she was and how skinny she was.
But I miss just knowing she was alive.
Do you have a right to mourn someone that you never knew like that? Is it okay to appreciate them in all the thing you never knew, to miss someone you never got a chance to miss? Do you have a right to mourn yourself in that person?
I ask myself so many questions, maybe too many. Maybe I should just mourn and get on with it, and quit worrying about whether I am allowed to, you know? But they’re legit questions.
Is there a point where empathy is fucking insulting to the people that have been touched directly? Stuff for me to keep thinking about, and maybe for other people to think about too.
Sometimes Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram likes to throw her face around everywhere, and I miss her. It’s more than missing; it’s pain, a pain in my heart where things are not the same as they used to be, where my grandmother is, where little parts of me are, as they fall off and apart, and new parts grow back, raw and tender. Fragile, and full of potential. An ache of growing. Ache of years layering themselves and falling away.
I have a paper to write.