Was she happy?
She kept many incomplete journals. Most of them seemed to be little more than stream of consciousness, random thoughts. Some were letters to companies, politicians, and past lovers. Some of her writings were her attempts to get it right with God. She wrote poetry, prose, and short stories. She wrote when she was happy. She wrote when she was angry. She wrote when she was trying to figure “it” all out.
In the overall scheme of things, she seemed perfectly content with her life.
There are millions of people in NYC most of whom live their lives in relative, if not complete, obscurity. They will never be interviewed by Barbara Walters or photographed by the paparazzi. They will never own their own home but they will never be homeless, either. They will never be arrested and they’ll never win the lottery.
Was she famous? No. Did she want to be famous? I doubt it. Did she ever have her fifteen minutes of fame? Probably not. Was she important? Absolutely. In fact, she was infinitely more important than the likes of Paris Hilton, and Rosie O’Donnell. She was one of the people who quietly and all but invisibly walk past you every single day. And she was perfectly content with her invisibility. She was a tiny cog in the huge wheel that keeps this city, and many other cities, moving. And she deserves to be respected for the silent beauty she brought to this city every single day.
And she died.
Alone in her apartment.
Alone in her life.
I never knew her during her life, but in her death she became the sister and friend I never new I had.
