My cousin died.
Well. First cousin once removed. My mother’s baby cousin. The baby of the family, until I came along.
I don’t know when she died. We found her a little too late.
I didn’t know her very well.
She put me on her back when I was 7 years old as she swam laps in the pool. I was gangly and I wrapped my arms around her neck too tight. She pretended to drown and I laughed.
She told me to keep singing and dancing. She said she’d be my manager one day. We were at another cousin’s wedding. She was wearing a suit. I thought, she definitely looks like a manager. I itched my neck where the tag of my dress burned and I laughed.
She once said she was cursed to be born with the face of the man she loved most in her life. I thought, what a terrible thing to say. She hated her broad shoulders. I thought she had a pretty smile.
She was smart. She had a brilliant older brother who doted on her, quietly. She was his baby sister, and that was enough.
She helped her nephews with homework.
She had a lot of college friends. Why did it take so long for us to find her?
I didn’t know my cousin.
But I knew her face.
My mother prays that she’s happier where she is. That she feels content, that she’ll be born again with a face she loves and is able to live the life she longed for.
I don’t know about all of that.
I knew her face, and she was enough.
I think I’ll miss her for a while now.
