For Rachelle

Written on April 18, 2005 – for Rachelle Williams By Stacy Nooning

Her funeral is today, so of course I am thinking about her. Actually, the last time I saw her.
“I love you, baby girl.”
“I love you, too.”
Last words spoken, last time seen.

Her smile is what I remember most – that rack of shining white teeth that spread from cheek to cheek on her face. But, she wasn’t wearing it this day. The last time I saw her she was walking away frustrated and sad. I had to call her back to deal with the situation – she wasn’t angry at me – but I pulled her back as she stormed off from Mrs. Butts, who was antagonizing the situation and Rachelle.
“Rachelle, come here.”
“No, that lady needs to leave me alone. I didn’t do anything to her, and she keeps after me.”
“Rachelle, come here! I’m not chasing you!”
“No!”
“Girl, remember who you’re talking to! I didn’t make you angry – I love you too much. Now, come here!”
Slowly, she turned, and slowly she came back to where I was standing at the top of the stairs. I put my arm around her shoulders and began to talk to her.
I knew she wasn’t at home, and I knew that she was worried about what she was going to do – so, we talked, or rather, she talked - I listened.
“If my mom doesn’t want me, that’s fine! I just want my clothes!”
I remember reaching out to her, hugging her, trying to comfort the little girl in this strong young woman’s body. We continued to talk about her plans and what she was going to do in the current situation.
“I’m not quitting school or my job – I got places to go, and I need both to get there. I at least need to keep my job – I need money for clothes.” (I remember she smiled and laughed)
We talked a little more – me trying to reassure her as she reassured herself as well.
“Everything will work out. We will figure it out.”
She hugged me and walked away. The last time. She walked away.
“I love you, baby girl.”
“I love you, too.”
I remember watching her walk down the stairs and thinking how great a kid she is, how intelligent, how beautiful, and successful she is going to be.

I wish I could call her back. I wish I could say her name, and she would come back again. I wish I could hug her one more time. Days later . . . her boyfriend lost control of the car . . . she dies of severe brain trauma caused from the rolling of the car. No marks - save one bruise from the shoulder harness of the seat belt. Her mother said she looked like an angel – well – she was an angel.
You know, I can call her back. It just isn’t the same. She’s living in my heart and my mind, but it just isn’t the same. I just see her walking away. . . I see her smile . . . I wish I could have her back . . . I want her . . . .