Photo by Henry Kobutra on UnsplashAna Lee Trace passed peacefully on Sunday, August 4th.
But she wasn’t even dead when she brought the rainstorm. It swished down, washing me in the scent of her citrus body spray. The rain hitting the streets clinked with the exact sound of her porch windchimes. “Very funny,” I said, when I found her alive and sipping apple juice in her hospital bed. She waggled her eyebrows because by then she could barely speak. I sat with her and read The Velveteen Rabbit over the tinkling rain. It was our last good day.
Ana attended Florida State University, she was involved in the arts.
Yet the real theatrics came after her funeral. Ana’s students received different emails each morning with the same message: Class canceled again. Sorry, I died! Her friends told me about birds whistling Ana’s favorite songs, Ana waving in the background of movies. People say to me, “It’s just like her!” They say, “I never know what’s next.” What they mean is, “When will it stop?”
Ana is remembered for her everlasting humor and generosity of spirit.
When I read that line I thought “everlasting” was crude. But that very night I went into the restaurant bathroom and came out wearing Ana’s 2013 prom dress. Neon blue. Glitter in the worst places. I felt the eyes of the restaurant on me and saw my date frozen stiff. I laughed as I explained Ana’s hauntings to my date. But she wasn’t finding it funny. She was gazing at me with so-sorry eyes and reaching for my hand. I flounced home alone in the dark. The stars played Maroon 5.
The sale of Ana’s belongings will go toward benefiting Florida Freedom to Read.
We waited on her tricks as we put her apartment into boxes. Would the postcards on her fridge start speaking? The little animals embroidered into her dish towels tumble off and run for it? We drifted into silence as darkness took the windows. I found a Korean language textbook by her bedstand, half the pages overrun with spindly handwriting. I took the textbook home with me, riding shotgun. She never told me she was learning Korean. I never knew. That day ended without a miracle.
Ana is survived by her parents and her older sister.
Survived really is the only word. Outlived sounds competitive. Predeceased is chilling. Survived can pass inconspicuously, despite what it is. That’s how I was thinking when I turned on the kitchen faucet and Ana’s voice poured out. A loud stream like she was in the middle of a story. I slammed it off and listened to her voice tumble down the drain. “ARE YOU EVER GOING TO GO?!” I stood gripping the edges of the counter. Deep breaths, like the therapist advised. Count the sounds, count the smells. When I was ready, I reached for the faucet lever, turned it just a crack, and wished for anything but water.
