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