Mt. Theodora

Well-earned wrinkles.  Battle-scarred voice box. A spirit smooth with confidence.  No grudges at her age.  Only razor blade wit and enough humor to make a Buckingham Palace guard giggle.  Shock the bystanders.  Something in the air around her that made people curious, like moths deciphering headlights from heaven.  Capable until the bitter end. A bitter aftertaste never scared a straight shooter.

Jewish born, way back, before Jesus left Chicago, where she was born.  Someone better get on the horn, let the gods know there’s a new sheriff in town.  They’ve been patient — so has she.  A force to be reckoned with.  Don’t confuse an honest snarl with a genuine smile.  She practiced both, a delicate balance.  

She’s a loaded six-shooter with a red rose down the barrel.  If I had to guess, she’ll probably be reincarnated as a mountain.  Something gnarly and beautiful, with a peak right up near the stars.  People will see her from miles away.  She’ll give permission for the sun to rise over her shoulder.  The howl of wolves will echo through her ribcage and the full moon will play with her hair at night.

There’s no mourning this woman.  She wouldn’t have it.  Pity is for the helpless.  At age 90, Theo would have spit in your face if you bought her a Life Alert.  An elegant independence.  A person you’d call for help.  An ace up a blouse sleeve.  Brass knuckles over the widowed wedding band scar.  Accepting all challengers.  

The Hawaiian sunset will be more brilliant tonight, the sky tie-dyed with her last breaths.  The Pacific Ocean will be slightly less salty, when cut with a pinch of her ashes. There’s never been rest for the wicked, but tonight, even the benevolent will stay up late, dancing, drinking, smoking with one of the most genuine humans to ever play the game — life.