Memories

I didn't stand up and share any memories of my cousin at her funeral, but I know what I would have said.

I used to see her at work. I work for her school district as a custodian, and I would sometimes find myself at the high school. Sometimes I would watch her at cheerleading practice in the commons. Sometimes I'd see her walking down the halls with a friend of hers. Once, I caught her hobbling out of a classroom on crutches, having stayed late to study for a French test. She hobbled on crutches a lot, once she got into high school. I may not have seen her very often at school (or otherwise, I'll admit), but half the times I did see her, she was busted up in one way or another.

I always said hello, and we would chat for a little bit. I'd ask her how school was going, or how she hurt herself, and then I'd tell her not to make any messes on her way out. I always found myself proud to see her, wanting to tell people about it. I would turn to my co-workers and say, "That's my cousin," smiling. And whenever she walked away from me, I would hear her say the same thing to her friends.

Maybe it doesn't sound that important. We are cousins, after all, and there's not much point in denying it if we're going to have conversations in the hallway. But I always felt like there are a lot of kids out there who wouldn't want their friends knowing that they were related to the janitor, kids who might be embarrassed or ashamed. And she never was. She sounded every bit as proud to claim me as her cousin as I was to claim her, and I won't ever forget that.

She's also one of the few people who's beaten me at Disney Trivial Pursuit, and I don't think I'll forget that, either.