That thing I can’t remember
A link to this video came up in my google reader this morning and I clicked right through. I love Snoop Dogg because he reminds me of my friend Diana, only I can't remember why, and now I can never ask her. Every time I see Snoop Dogg I'll say out loud, like I did this morning, "Diana, tell me again why did we love Snoop Dogg?" and nobody will laugh and nobody will answer. Unless I suddenly start receiving text messages from the beyond, which is what I'm pulling for now that Verizon is picking up the iPhone.
I went home for Easter because April 3 would have been her 40th birthday, and that's the day they buried her urn at her father's gravesite. Her name had been added to the tombstone along with those dates, 1970–2010, and it hadn't occurred to me until then that I'd known her for 25 years, that it had been 25 years since she passed me drawings of Donald Duck in German class. They had dug a little hole in front of the stone and the priest said a prayer and moved aside the little patch of grass that covered the hole, and her brother walked up and placed the urn inside it and her mom placed a photo of her children on top of that. We all sprinkled it with holy water (news to me, as a practicing heathen) and set our white roses on the ground beside it and stood there in the warm April sun, and nobody said anything, and all you could hear was the wind and the traffic from the interstate a couple of miles away and the sound of people sobbing into their tissues. Then we went back to her mom's house and ate birthday cake.
Oh, my friend. We were supposed to get old together. I wanted to see that beautiful face at 50, and 80, and hear that laugh. I wanted us to be Golden Girls.
So, I'll always give it up for Snoop Dogg.