A Life, Well Lived.

For Laticia Ann.

Yesterday, I watched my oldest, dearest friend bury her father.

When she told me she planned to give remarks, I asked if she was sure she wanted to speak.

My all-too-bossy-must-protect-the-BFF mind worried she put too much pressure on herself to be poised under circumstances that didn’t require it.

And, selfishly, I thought,

“If I had the support system she had, I wouldn’t make myself do anything but be present.”

I was wrong. Like. Ridiculously wrong.

She got up there, regal as ever, with the round, expressive features and open-hearted charisma she inherited from her father.

And she fucking killed it.

What you should know about me and my friend:

We met in Kindergarten. And for years, didn’t get along.

She was loud. Goofy. At seven years old, she belched like a 40 year old man after one too many beers. And would laugh at herself.

As if little girls sounding like they’d overdone it at the neighborhood bar was perfectly normal.

I was a know-it-all. Who walked with swinging hips before she had hips to swing. Who cried when she didn’t get 100% on a test.

Who sat with crossed legs and was a real estate agent for Halloween in third grade.

This matters because,

yesterday, I witnessed real confidence. Real grace.

Not the airs I put on to cope. To protect myself. To perform when my insecurities threaten to swallow me whole.

But the natural confidence of a woman who’s never been afraid to be herself.

A woman who, like the father she honored with her words, lives well.

Silly me. Thinking she’d do anything but show up as the best version of herself.

Lucky me.

That I get to call her my best friend.

Published by

a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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