It’s Miss Nesha Baby

I’ve been thinking about this day for the last month and a half.

Wondering if I was going to do another heartfelt and emotional poem. Would I write it? Or record it and do a video? Or perhaps I’d do a long post examining the nuances of mortal fairness and the leering coils of death awaiting us all at the end of this magnificent train ride called life. Or maybe the anger would come bursting out. Massive fury at the injustice of such a wondrous, victorious light being snuffed out by cancer. Would it be sorrow? A most elegant lamentation?

I had so many options, my emotions were all over the place. This past Sunday, a friend and wonderful poet by the name of Arielle Estoria (check her out!) held her monthly second Sunday open mic and I went. I didn’t just attend, I also performed. I didn’t just perform. I did the very piece I wrote specifically for Nesha’s funeral.

I’ve been thinking about this day for the last month and a half.
So many directions it could go.
Because afterall…

What do you do when your miracle dies?

Nesha was my friend. A champion since she was child and had to have her leg amputated because of the cancer in her body. A fighter who nonetheless came down to Musician’s Institute and rocked it. Cancer flared and went into remission repeatedly; each time claiming another piece of who she was. Hair. Bodily strength. A bite of her spirit.

And you know what she did?

Everything she wanted to do.

She had a roommate, and friends, and a job (on campus, by the way, and she wheeled her medicine rack around the campus with her), and she sang with friends, and partied, and dated, and traveled.

Nesha had cancer; cancer didn’t have Nesha.

The eulogistic words of Pastor Kelvin Truitt as he spoke at her funeral rang with an otherworldly trueness that every person in the audience immediately connected to.

Nesha gave her entire life to living, until one night in the hospital she fell asleep and there was no more life to live.

My miracle had broken. So much of my faith and hope were rooted in all of the Heavenly glory that she personified.

I’ve been thinking about this day for the last month and a half.

How would I handle it? Would there be tears? Depression? Angst? Self deprecation that I haven’t lived the lessons that her life taught me? Anguish at my many shortcomings? Raised fist at God? Extreme passivity?

What would it be!

Last night another good poet friend of mine by the name of Wyann Vaughn (check her out too!) had an event in downtown Los Angeles celebrating the sophomoric release of her latest poetry book. However, in true Wyann form, it wasn’t your average poetry reading. There was music, and soul singing, and jazz, and hip hop, and encouragement, and dancing, and family, and then when our spirits were vibrating warmly at the highest levels, she would slip in and hit us with a bit of her enchanting poetry.

Melt our minds with the tenable charisma only Wyann can bring such energetic definition to. Her confidence has instinct. And it shows.

I had brought another poet friend with me to the event (I didn’t realize until just now how many poets I hang around, haha) and we had a blast. Vibin, groovin, smilin, laughin, snappin, shoutin. It was transcendent.

And as the clock ticked ever so much closer towards the midnight mark, a beguiling two step of inevitability, I realized exactly what I would be doing.

Celebrating music and enjoying life to the full.

Just the way Nesha would want me to.
(she’d also tell me I better have ALL the fun on my trip to Brazil this next week and a half too, lol)

Happy Heaven Day girl. ❤
I’m still learnin.

Don’t let words unspoken wreak havoc on your insides. Singers should sing out. Dancers should dance out. Writers should write out.

-Wyann Vaughn


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