Devonne Brown

Work it, Sandy.

Downpours aren’t kind.

Just as predicted, water soaks right through that magazine on your head. Independence means you make the choice to run from here to the door in the rain whether your mom says you can or not. You still get wet. It’s part of life’s journey. The big stuff, you do alone. 

In principle, you can do anything you want when you’re independent. You can drink tea naked in the sunshine of your own backyard, or front yard if your hedge is high enough. You can even fly to Brazil.

It’s all about choices. 

Sandy has gone to spirit. Her heart stopped.

She was a medium. Did she predict her death? Who let her know? Doris? June?

Sandy and I became close friends when I moved to North Carolina, and joined the Spiritualist Church. We took healing classes and sat circle together. You wouldn’t believe the tales of the crypt, visions of spooks, and spirits she shared. I shake my head at the hubbub, the wonder, the light that shines around her memory right now.

Sandy had been a model. She was beauty, dignity, elegance, grace, and abused. She was seduced by a bad man who put her on a pedestal then debilitated her for it. Her son was just like him. He’d never even been to the apartment she lived in when she died alone. He didn’t even know where it was.

A crone who chose to leave, she was just done. 

I’m lighting the candles for you, Sandy. I hope you haunt the living shit out of the assholes who hurt you. Be a poltergeist.

 It’s karma time, baby. 

Work it, Sandy. Work it.