Lydia.

Lydia

showed up to my grandmother’s funeral

in a skirt that stopped

here.

I remember sitting next to my mother

and seeing her jaw drop

I followed her gaze and

alas

it settled on Lydia standing across the church

smiling awkwardly

Lydia

with purple lips smacking gum

Lydia

with fake afro that covered half of her face

Lydia

with her fishnet tights and velvet skirts

After the ceremony

when I could get away from the flashing cameras

and insincere mourners

and overpaid DJ

Lydia and I settled behind the house

with bottles of beer and small chops

She told me about the guy she was sort of but not really dating

who had just dumped her;

she didn’t know what to do with the return ticket to London he had bought her before the break up

Right on the day of my grandmother’s interment

Lydia spoke of men and tourism

unrestrained

And I could not help but love her

with her ill-informed, over-opinionated self

with her bad taste in men and clothes

and her inability to see beyond herself

She was a catastrophe

a walking disaster

and she knew it

we all knew it

and yet

she held us

spell-bound

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