Sierra

This cousin of mine, Sierra, was a short, red-headed, infuriated teenager. She was about 12 years older than me, the youngest and only daughter of one my mom’s sisters.

When she was angry at her parents for making her do her chores, she would trap her breath in her cheeks, in an effort not to yell at them because she could get a beating for it. Sometimes she'd mumble, under her breath, things like she "might just run away one day" or like "she hoped she would die so she didn't have to be tortured anymore". A bit overdramatic, I agree. But that shit really inspired the hell out of little five-year-old me.

In her defense, her parents were foolish and extremely restrictive – but not with her two older brothers, who got all the freedom they could ask for. Just as if she had never heard any of the restrictions, she broke every single rule: skipped classes, smoked cigarrettes and pot at 16, had sex with her boyfriends ( yes, plural), got condoms and birth control at a community center, and got several tattooes with a fake ID, among other typical teenage transgressions. Even though she was a rebel, she had very romantic dreams, like being the mom to a baby girl. She pinky promised she would be totally different from her own mom.

Some other stories about her, I would get by eavesdroping on adult conversations, usually between my mom and adults who also knew her:

"I heard she got caught with that drug dealer in his house, when she was supposed to be at school", someone would say with that unsubtle sting of judgement.

"It doesn't matter, teenagers can't be too restricted, they're too smart, too sneaky. She must have that bad blood that the other side of the family has", another adult would state, making sure to mention their own superiority: "of course, it wouldn't be from our side."

I heard some other stories about her, like how she confronted one of our aunts who told her she was a whore, a shame to our name, and so they were not speaking to each other at a family event. And stories about her getting into a fist fight with one of her cousins, who was spreading false rumors about her around town. And one time she called my mom out for being a gossip in front of everyone – mom, you deserved it!

But she was always nice to me. She would let me go through her stuff and told me stories about her cool friends and boyfriends. She was very popular with the guys, and some of them were seriously hot. I loved going through her notebooks from school. Some pages had doodles and stickers, other pages had a full handwritten chat, in which she and her friends passed the notebook around during a boring class. They talked about couples, about smoking a cigarette at recess, outside the back exit of the school yard, and about other people, like the school staff. It was the social media of the 90s.

We had few and limited interactions for many years. The age gap was big enough for our lives to only be connected in very specific situations, such as some family gatherings or visits between our parents.

And so it goes.

Life went on for years and years. My family moved to a different state, so we didn't see each other for a very long time. I heard little news here and there: she had moved in with her boyfriend, the whole family seemed to like him, and they were having a baby. Soon after that, she had a baby girl. I happened to be in town a couple of days after she gave birth to Maya – at this point I was a teenager, who thought I knew it all already, and she was an adult, she was a mother. I offered to wash her dishes and take out the trash. I ended up also offering to change diapers and watch the baby so she could take a nap.

She definitely looked different, even though her red hair and smile gave her a juvenile touch that would never go away. She would always look like someone who constantly needs to break some rules in order to feel alive. She didn't breastfeed her baby, because her mother considered it the utmost obligation of motherhood.

Another few years went by, I was doing homework for college, and my phone rang. I dind't recognize the number, but the area code was from where several aunts, uncles and cousins lived, so I picked up:

"Hey, there! It's Sierra. How's everything?", she said. I was worried.

"Hey. Is... everything ok?" I asked, immediately thinking that something bad might have happened.

"Oh, yeah everything is ok. I just wanted to check in. I was thinking about you."

It was one of those simple, but pleasant coversations, that leaves your heart with a warm, fuzzy feeling. We talked about Maya, about how cute and funny she had been. Sierra asked me if I liked going to college and confessed she always dreamed of going, too – but being a stay at home mom, she couldn't afford tuition and childcare. She told me she was happy that at least someone in her family had made it that far. This conversation was very short, but it is much treasured to me.

Many years later, the feeling of getting that call from her still has its dedicated space in my heart. At one point in her life, Sierra thought of me and wanted to talk to me. Now, for my entire existence, I have an everlasting memory of a sentimental conversation with another human being.

A year ago today, Sierra suddenly died. A few days before her death, I had thought about her, but decided not to call because I was busy.

"Maybe another time", I lied to myself.

What was I busy with? I've got no fucking idea.