The cycle continues.

She gave me my first perm.

I was sleeping over at her house,babysitting S and Y (C wasn't even born yet). They were getting perms or doing their hair or something...my 8 year old memory is rather fuddled. She asked me if I wanted her to do my hair. I nodded,excited at the novelty of not breaking combs and blowdriers. In about an hour,there I was,looking like the girl on the Dark and Lovely box (not really). Now that I think about it,that was a great name for that. Down with LSBs? Not so much. Just yay,let's do this black beauty ninininis. My mom must have been so annoyed when I came home with - well,slick,smooth,black,white-like hair.

She's the reason I like brown rice. For some reason,everyone hates brown anything. (I draw the line at brown ugali,though. Trauma from when I was a child and Mom told me it was chocolate and I took the hugest chunk,and the biggest - first and last ever - bite) Not me. I'm all like,whoop,brown rice this and brown porridge that.

She had the most radiant smile,and remains one of the women whose examples I would quote as people who look freakin amazing with short hair. She was gorgeous.

I ushered at her funeral service today. It was weird,of course. Death never really feels like death,never like it's going to happen to you,or those around you,as if you live in a bubble free from the things that bother other humans. Like you're special,or somehow immune. I'm of the opinion that God should just make those whose time has come die in their sleep,instead of through intense pain.

I was looking at her husband. You never think,when you're saying your vows to someone,that that 'forever' bit isn't true. Or you hope you're the first one to go,selfishly,so you don't have to be the one to carry on,to raise the children you made together,to put the love of your life in a dirt grave.

Being an usher is weird for me. I don't like people,nor do I particularly enjoy associating with them. So having to hand out programs,and not cry,and find them places to sit...weird. I keep getting into these situations - sijui bridesmaid,sijui emcee.

The church was packed full in an hour. Maybe it's because I was brought up Adventist,but it does not make sense to me to come to church in jeans. A jean skirt,I can forgive. Skinnies and untidy hair? #iCANT. It's a funeral service,not a pool hall or sijui a road trip. Camaaaaaaaaaan. Nobody had better come to my funeral service in jeans. You heard - read - it here. I may haunt you. Which will be hard,because ghosts don't exist,but whatever. Which of course,gets me thinking about my own funeral,and how I'm going to convince someone (namely,said mother) to cremate me. I have faith.

RIP,Aunty.

tSN