Let Us Live in Truth.
We Know that Life
Can be a Lonely Garden
With Slow Minutes,
or a Sea that has Slipped Away.

My Wish: To Live With Open Hands,
To See with the Eyes of A Child,
To Celebrate the Fire Beneath My Skin,
To Dwell on the Rooftops of Love,
To Die a Small Death.

There are Unknown Colors
that can Alter Our Hearts.
Paint With that Palette.
Be as Weightless as a Petal.
Fill that Empty Sky and Dance.

Jillita-The Happiest Chica in the World

Jillita-The Happiest Chica in the World
Photograph by Rick Peterson

Saturday, October 10, 2009

In Memory of Sunday: 11.14.1955-10.10.2009

Even a gust of wind becomes tired. Sunday, was storm-tossed and weary, ready to go home. In these somber moments when eccentricities fade and weaknesses are forgiven, cobwebs are brushed away from each windowpane. Between half shadows and light, she is fluttering inside of Heaven now, wearing veils of pure white and a ceremonial head-dress made from the moon.

Sunday lived her life in front of too many mirrors, always looking for secret things. She could no longer see herself once her wings began to pale. She still had an entire earth to walk, chants to sing, flowers to arrange, beds to fill, lips to paint. Her feet began to dance too quickly as she moved between her sadness and lost dreams. Sunday stopped hearing the music of the rain, thinking her bright, bright star had been seized. Her perfect green eyes became swords. That unforgettable smoky voice, an anxious wail.

Yet there was an immense tide of people who continued to love her anyway.

Liz Lane-McIntyre, who was Sunday's dearest friend, aptly named her towering partner in crime "Large". Living inside the "World of Large" was an extraordinary experience. Sunday was a true unique and left an artist's footprint wherever she walked. She was a seer who understood passion with wisdom. She could leave you upside down or convince you to soar. Her demeanor was tender or tough. She wore her enormous heart under an open gown. Every conversation seemed intensely intimate. There was always a look of longing on her remarkable face. No one ever looked more beautiful in cowboy boots, tight jeans and a hat. When Sunday glided across any dance floor, there was no other place to gaze. It was Show Time. We would watch in complete awe as this striking amazon incarnated, commanding the attention of an entire room.

The World of Large was one of magic and drama, spirit and demons. She loved full out and contracted her affections with an unsettling ease. She was often a fugitive from her own mystery. She was drawn towards the wrong men in her quest to feel safe. Her laughter was inviting; her tears were tremulous and unexpected. In the vast space between her need to escape clarity, she somehow forgot to embrace her own torrential power. Sunday floated through fragile doorways, knowing, not knowing what was on the other side.

And no matter how she tested the infinite waters of our collective friendships, we continued to love her anyway. How could we not?

It is a delicate loss when a girlfriend dies: a deepening ache, this love that rises and falls gentler than air. I began missing Sunday even before she fell into eternity. I think Large wanted just one word from life, for her wounds to heal without shame or to have a day when she did not have to push so hard against time. In the end, death seemed to be a chosen destiny, the only way to move the clouds from her troubled violet sky.

There are no longer vague questions to ask nurses or breathless hours to spend by her bedside, chronicled with the wistful hope that she would surprise us once again. Her legend of being the Comeback Kid was over. She had been dreaming inside of her eyelids for too long and the curtains were opened wide. Only a precious few could hear her wordless whispers and understand that Sunday was saying more than goodbye. With the rise of an eyebrow, a wink, or a fierce nod, the final chapter of her story was being told in a stark hospital room, a place absent of the beauty she created in everything she touched.

There were great sorrows to her last night. One by one, Sunday was gently disconnected from the machines that had sustained her tentative hold on life. I had whispered a prayer before I fell asleep, knowing that the following morning would not be an ordinary thing. I waited for the phone to ring, for Liz to call and tell me what I already knew. Gone. Gone. Our Girl is Gone. Anger had shifted to Compassion. Love was always Love. On this day of days, I feel only Grace and Gratitude for decades of sisterhood with this exceptional woman. I bear my lonely hands towards the sky and release soft silky doves to follow her home. I only keep the precious memories of my stunning friend, Sunday, whose willow finally bent and broke with just a scent of the wind.

Paz, Senorita Dominga, Paz.

Be love. You are finally free.

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