My friend’s 21-year-old daughter died in her sleep last week.
With so many other articles ready to publish here, all I can think about is how nothing makes sense.
My friend’s 21-year-old daughter died in her sleep last week. She’d spent the night at a friend’s house, and when her friend went to wake her up for breakfast, she found her dead.
Aniyah was larger than life, one of those shining stars that you watch in wonder until that star suddenly vanishes from the sky. Then you look up and realize the sky is just a bit darker, a bit less interesting without that one star. And you think to yourself, “Of course. These shining stars are only here for a brief moment in time.” We are left, after they leave, feeling empty. Feeling that we now had to find a way to carry on without them, to find life in our lives that will fill the gap they left behind.
I have so many other articles that are ready to publish. They are edited, polished, perfected.
I’ve been writing for months, getting ready to start my writing journey at Medium. I’ve never felt like publishing them. But I woke up in the middle of the night last night, thinking about Aniyah, about her mom and her stepmom and her brother and her two younger half-sisters. I went about my ranch work today thinking about her.
And I wanted to write about her today.
I drove two hours to get to the wake yesterday evening.
I drove two hours because I wanted to be there and because I wanted my friend, T, to know that I was there for her. I drove thinking that I didn’t know what to expect, and so I tried not to have expectations. I had never met any of her other friends, or even her wife — who, somehow, wasn’t a huge fan of mine. T had moved away years ago but we never lost touch. Phone calls, photos, and lunches at restaurants halfway between us kept us close.
A few people were seated in the lobby of the funeral home, and a few more were inside the large viewing room. I sat in the back of the room, alone, choking back my own tears that wouldn’t stop, so I stopped wiping the tears away instead.
About fifteen minutes later, I heard a small, quiet commotion in the lobby and ventured out. There wasn’t a single familiar face anywhere in any of the tiny groups of people gathered around. Even though I had never met T’s wife, I could somehow guess which one she was in the small crowd. She was the one holding it together for everyone else. She was the one mingling, and making sure everything was set, and that T had nothing to worry about, and she was the one who understood that people around her needed consoling or maybe needed humor or maybe needed a chat about their hair.
When T arrived, I stood at the back of the lobby, seeing how numb she was as she talked with the eight or ten people around her. I didn’t want to intrude. She had her friends, and Aniyah’s friends, and her wife’s family and friends. T is estranged from her own family. She made it out of that situation alive and with her wits about her and she never looked back.
So, I stood in the back, waiting. If T never noticed me, I’d be fine with that. If she noticed me and never came over, I’d be fine with that, too. I was there because maybe my presence could help. If it didn’t help her, then maybe it would help me.
I was lost. I could not understand how NyNy was suddenly gone. She was full of life, healthy, happy. She lived life out loud, but she left her body and this world peacefully, quietly. I didn’t know what caused her death. I didn’t care. I still don’t care.
I saw T holding out a hand to a few people.
It seemed she was trying to get a hold of the conversation or trying to say something but the quiet whispers continued around her until I heard her say, “Excuse me. Excuse me. My friend is here. I need to go see her.”
Then she separated herself from the group and I suddenly had eight sets of eyes on me, the stranger, as T walked over. It was a slow walk. A walk that said, “I’m exhausted physically, mentally, spiritually, and I am lost as well. So very lost.”
Her face became that face we all know. The smile that isn’t a smile but the start of an expression of pain that you’re trying desperately to suppress for whatever reason because as soon as that smile breaks the tears will start.
And her tears did start, soft sobs into my shoulder as we gripped each other.
“I’m so tired,” she choked out quietly.
“I understand.”
“I’ve done nothing but cry,” she whispered.
“Of course.”
“I just feel numb.”
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“You’re allowed to feel numb.”
And then, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“So am I.”
It was a long embrace, and when she broke away we talked some more. I said the usual, supposedly-right things. “You don’t have to feel any particular way. You don’t have to explain yourself. You’re allowed to just be right now. Just be with it all.”
She talked some more. I nodded along, holding her hand.
Her wife came over with two or three other people. I couldn’t tell you what their energy was like — good or bad? Curious or intimidating? I wasn’t paying attention to them until they were pressing in around us.
T introduced me and her wife genuinely but politely dismissed me — until T told another young woman that I was her former personal trainer. “Oh!” exclaimed her wife. “This is the Alicia!” I smiled and she gave me a genuinely insincere hug. She didn’t have to love me or appreciate me or want me to be happy. She didn’t have to be grateful that I was there. I was the outsider. The stranger. I wasn’t there when T got the phone call and I wasn’t there when T broke down and begged NyNy to wake up just please wake up dear God don’t leave me and I wasn’t there when she begged the coroner for one last look or more info and I wasn’t there when the tribe took over all the planning and prep because that’s what they do for each other. I was very much an outsider and I knew it and I was okay with it. I’m still okay with it.
Sitting in the back of the viewing room, by myself.
A massive room with soothing burgundy carpeting, high, sloped ceiling. A long peak stretched across the center of the ceiling, dividing the slopes. At the top of the peak was one long stretch of skylights in panels. T turned from the casket, turned from everyone around her, looking. Her eyes landed on mine. She slogged over, slumped down next to me and I put my arm around her shoulder. She rested her head on my shoulder and I rested my head on hers, grabbed her arm with my free hand and she grabbed a hold of me with both her hands.
“We had plans for the summer. Her brother and his girlfriend were coming in and we were all going …” her voice trailed off. “We’re still going. We decided as a family.”
“I think Aniyah would want that.”
T nodded.
“You were such a good mom to her. You are a good mom.”
“I tried,” she whispered.
“You did good. You stood by her through all her wobbles and never gave up. You’re a good mom.”
“Thank you.”
And then, a thought, which slipped from my lips before I could stop it. “Did you tell your cousin?”
T’s body shuddered. “Yes,” with a hiss. “All I got was screaming obscenities. She had nothing nice to say.”
Aniyah’lyn Emma Rose chose her own name.
She chose something that expressed the inner beauty she felt about herself and her life, while still honoring her Native roots. T had adopted her and her brother when they were young. Aniyah had remembered when they first met me at the gym, but hadn’t remembered very much else about our early encounters.
She and her brother were raised in a strict, religious household. Many people describe the religion they were raised in as a cult. When T drove a tank, high speed, through the courts to wrench custody of them from her drug-addicted cousin, both Aniyah and her brother were so grateful, they changed their names from the biblical names they were given at birth. They carefully considered all their options, then went through the legal process with T, who helped them with the paperwork.
From the moment the adoption was finalized, Aniyah was allowed to express who she was, finally and fully. Aniyah was into glamour makeup, fancy dresses, glittering nails, and all things feminine. She was girly, she was fun, she loved everyone and she loved life. She loved celebrating her birthday and everyone else’s birthdays and especially loved Halloween.
She was reminder of how full of life we can all be, because she was so full of life. She was a reminder of how divine we all are, because she embraced her own divinity. She had big dreams, and she wanted everyone around her to have big dreams. And so we all did.
Aniyah wanted to own a skyscraper one day. She told T, when she was very young, that was her goal. It was just a few months ago that T had asked her, “Where’s my skyscraper, girl?”
“Please,” Aniyah replied. “I’ve still got time, Mama!”
