Ayala,
I have dreaded writing these lines, though they were an inevitability I knew I had to face, despite my terror that in doing so I make it finality; I show acceptance of your transcendence from material to ethereal. It has been a very interesting Journey, and one of the most long lasting and stable links I’ve held to anyone: days spent in idle rants about the awesome yet often despicable nature of people, paralleling persons in our lives to characters from favourite tomes; bemoaning the damage or loss of a treasured book due to lending, though unable to refuse anyone who showed an interest- I remember vividly the soliloquy you rendered on how your favourite Lewis Carroll book was a little over two years overdue but you would never ask the person, who you saw daily, to return it. After some pushing you went to enquire after it, only to find that it was assumed that the book was gifted. The look you had as we walked off was priceless; we headed to the classrooms adjacent to the Drama room and there was nothing for it, we simply joked about it and laughed. Looking back, I believed we had a way to laugh about anything, from the (there is no better way to put it) retarded hand flailing and ululating used to refer to things that excited, disgusted or intrigued us, to having a song for every word that ended a sentence - it was in these instances Hanief was co-conspirator and, naturally Karim ever present if even for a second to make an utterly mind boggling though no less hilarious reference to liking eggs. There was a particular conversation that moved from eggs to bread to buttermilk and dragons (A. Lang’s Violet Fairy-book, a new addition at the time to my collection) then to cheese and the dangers of moving someone’s cheese, and after, mapping the conversation that could only be considered seamless madness.
Wondrous times there have been, but life is, in its duality sure to swing down. It is these moments, though few, which left me with very profound respect and instinct to protect one so much younger yet so clearly equal- and in many ways above me mentally and spiritually. One instance while in a floating period between classes I was told by friends in your form who had sought me out that you weren’t okay. I ran up to your classroom; saw you sitting by a wall, a small group of your classmates hovering worriedly. You were mumbling with your head down for a while, and I waited…after a minute of silence I started singing “Don’t Worry Be Happy” the song that was usually a surefire way to make you smile, especially when it got to the bridge, because I couldn’t whistle so I sang the part In whistle like fashion- not a beautiful sound- I went on until you joined in at “he might have to litigate” – I swear I don’t even know why those lyrics after that day made me feel like giggling…we sat for a while and you asked one question repeatedly. I assumed you wanted no answer initially, but then I ventured to respond:
“Why?”
“Because he is, you are, and it is, completely human.”
“That doesn’t make it right. Why? He saw me… and now…what?”
“Now, you get through right now, he did what was possible though unexpected, you do what you need to do to feel ok again.” you raised your hands, little trembling fists attached to wispy thin yet graceful arms and pounded my chest, punctuating each blow with the alternated “why” and “it’s not fair” I was either now the vision of what was causing the pain, or the idiot who dared be rational at a time like this… I let you continue, your fistfalls, though steady, were not at all harmful. As your pace slowed, we talked, the flow becoming less and less abridged and abbreviated and full paragraphs detailed the scenario. After having spoken, the heavy stuff now in the air and before the awkward anxiety this should bring, a gesture and a funny sound had us both giggling and we walked off in search of food as we whiled away the time it took Hanief to find us. The next week in rehearsal you apologised, looking as if expecting to see scars and bruises. I shrugged it off, it was fine, and for the whole day you kept inspecting my hands and neck for signs of abuse thinking your methods discreet (though one can only glance at someone’s hand and neck casually so many times).
You were ill a number of times physically as well, and it is in those moments that I feared for you most. There was the big issue of your fleeting and often ignored appetite, and the quasi arguing about the importance of eating followed by the need after to go ensure another certain person was doing the same, unified in our projection of this shared fault on someone else. These moments usually petered out well, except in the rare case of a blackout, and then I’d be the manual ferry if Hanief hadn’t already been so, to a place of safety or rest until you were professionally seen to. Then there were those evenings you were beyond my scope of assistance. The pain of contact for you was unbearable; you would lie there in the lowest darkest part of the room you were in and shiver, wanting comfort and warmth but having to refuse coverings or blankets of any kind, as even the contact of just your uniform was torturous. I had no use, and that was terrifying, knowing I take pride in being ever handy- yet comforted very little that I could only sing to you, only heartened when you joined in, selfish that I wanted to hear you trying, feeling a little more reassured you would be okay, despite the knowledge sleep would probably serve you better as you waited on your mother or father to come take you home.
Amidst all these happenings there were myriad memories, so many paths my mind wanders, the speed of thought lightning to my tortoise fingers on the keyboard, and the recollections beyond possibility of full transcription; how can one describe the joy that one’s soul feels at the shout of “Cheese!” or the sight of a wildly waving arm advancing in your direction from the library? There are no words and likely no space to capture such things. If I were to give tangibility to the epistle which would encompass my interaction with you, I would speak to your heart…your heart, the makings of which far exceed being called mere “gold”. I would need to mention your undeniably infectious laughter, your quiet wisdom housed simultaneously with your beautiful innocence, and the “Matilda-like” way of interacting (Roald Dahl, *heavy sigh*).
I could speak to your immensely beautiful creativity, to your wonderful, picturesque, flowing haunting poetic gift; your ability to artistically manoeuvre objects in a space, whether of words or of physical things; your silvery light soprano and the long journey it took to “draw it out” of you while u lazed in the alto line of Music Club, the earnest with which you approached the Keyboard as your assigned instrument in the club. I could write on your transition to the Jamaica Youth Chorale, where your Bow-ties were something of a favourite of your fellow choristers as you navigated the ranks and carved your spot within the hearts of the members, assimilating into the family. I seek to remember you at this point, close to the actualisation of a serious step in your academic life, sharing your art and gifts with the world, being awarded for- and more importantly accepting graciously that applause- your brilliance and hard work; a life coming together as it should, as all should aspire to live and be. So while I admit to your passing, permit me, dear friend, to have you in mental stasis, at the wondrous place you were, on the brink of exactly where you wanted to be…it is painful that God had other plans.
“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” - Emily Dickinson
To a life well lived, by a girl well loved, at a place and time she was well needed.
Love,
Carl-Anthony
A
