She looked like another little girl altogether. Curly locks in a hairsprayed coif and makeup on her tiny face...this wasn't Tascha! But it was. It was the funeral director's version of Tascha. And she was made up to look as pretty as can be so she can be displayed to her loved ones as she lay dead in her coffin.
But she was only six years old! How can this be?
When I scurried back to Florida after the ill-planned and soon-abandoned idea of me moving back to Rhode Island almost a year before, I was offered the opportunity to live with my friend Chris whom I'd met at the Orlando Gay and Lesbian Center. He was a somewhat regular patron, though only there for the LGBT library services, and I was a volunteer manning the reception desk and incoming calls.
Chris was short and chubby and spoke with quite a lilted affectation. But he could spar well in a wit-upon-wit match and wasn't catty or bitchy about it which means he usually won by consensus since he stayed "above it all". We clicked easily enough, though for him it was obvious he wanted more than just platonic friendship from me.
When I'd decided to leave to return to Rhode Island, I told none of my friends in Florida, including him. I hated goodbyes and felt that if I hadn't given them to my RI friends before I left for Florida back in May of last year (except Chiafalo), why should I now?
So when I called him after the end of my second week back in Rhode Island from Wayne's house, I had a lot of 'splainin' to do.
But Chris, who I'd later find out, had lots of experience with transient behavior, understood totally and when I said I'd love to come back to Florida but didn't have a place to stay, he didn't hesitate a second. I was offered a room of my own for a very low price...if Claudia, the homeowner approved.
I showed up at the door of the house after my long drive back. Claudia answered the door with her hair wrapped in a towel, she'd just finished her shower. I told her about the situation and she gave me a good look. She realized I was earnest and she agreed to me becoming her new roommate.
The room I'd use was originally designated to become Tascha's, Claudia and her boyfriend Richard's young daughter, but she had developmental difficulties, namely Multiple Sclerosis which prevented her from, even at the age of 5, becoming more independent. She still slept in a crib near her parents in their bedroom.
When I met Tascha, she immediately opened up to me and we were best buds. She and I would play together and both Claudia and Rich were amazed at how well we got along.
I understood Tascha, and though they didn't tell me there was a dual diagnosis, I could also tell that she was developmentally disabled. My years of experience in the field was invaluable in this determination.
Claudia and Rich later admitted that they knew of her mental capacity limitations but they weren't going to let it diminish their love of their daughter and the opportunities she would have. I agreed with them wholeheartedly.
Throughout my months there, Tascha was a little bug. She'd sneak up on me and shout "boo", scaring me, so I had pick her up and to pretend to gobble her up.
She and I would sing together to amuse the other house mates. We'd both have our fake microphones and pretend to be the next best musical duet. She usually sang better than me though.
One day, Tascha jumped up on me as I lie on the couch watching TV in the living room. She said, loud enough for all the others to hear, "I want to be your girl friend, Mi-Coh! (That's how she pronounced my name). I said, smiling, "But I only like boys, Tascha!". She replied, "Then I want to be a boy!".
By the end of the year I had moved into a new apartment with Ric, a new friend from work. I needed to have my own place but I still kept in touch with my buds from Spinnaker Drive, including Tascha who came on the phone whenever I called.
In late January, I got a call at work, it was Rich, Tascha's dad. He told me that Tascha had been brought to the hospital overnight because she was severely sick. They found out it was because of a brain embolism. They did everything they could but she died.
So now, here I was, my eyes sore from crying, watching all Tascha's loved ones come before the congregation to speak about her. I looked at her little tiny corpse in the coffin, it looked fake. Plastic. I touched her cheek. It was cold and hard like a doll. Was this real? How could a youthful, energetic, vibrant little child end up like this?
My friends and I hugged, and even though I had exhausted all the tears I thought I could, I somehow cried again.
But she was only six years old! How can this be?
When I scurried back to Florida after the ill-planned and soon-abandoned idea of me moving back to Rhode Island almost a year before, I was offered the opportunity to live with my friend Chris whom I'd met at the Orlando Gay and Lesbian Center. He was a somewhat regular patron, though only there for the LGBT library services, and I was a volunteer manning the reception desk and incoming calls.
Chris was short and chubby and spoke with quite a lilted affectation. But he could spar well in a wit-upon-wit match and wasn't catty or bitchy about it which means he usually won by consensus since he stayed "above it all". We clicked easily enough, though for him it was obvious he wanted more than just platonic friendship from me.
When I'd decided to leave to return to Rhode Island, I told none of my friends in Florida, including him. I hated goodbyes and felt that if I hadn't given them to my RI friends before I left for Florida back in May of last year (except Chiafalo), why should I now?
So when I called him after the end of my second week back in Rhode Island from Wayne's house, I had a lot of 'splainin' to do.
But Chris, who I'd later find out, had lots of experience with transient behavior, understood totally and when I said I'd love to come back to Florida but didn't have a place to stay, he didn't hesitate a second. I was offered a room of my own for a very low price...if Claudia, the homeowner approved.
I showed up at the door of the house after my long drive back. Claudia answered the door with her hair wrapped in a towel, she'd just finished her shower. I told her about the situation and she gave me a good look. She realized I was earnest and she agreed to me becoming her new roommate.
The room I'd use was originally designated to become Tascha's, Claudia and her boyfriend Richard's young daughter, but she had developmental difficulties, namely Multiple Sclerosis which prevented her from, even at the age of 5, becoming more independent. She still slept in a crib near her parents in their bedroom.
When I met Tascha, she immediately opened up to me and we were best buds. She and I would play together and both Claudia and Rich were amazed at how well we got along.
I understood Tascha, and though they didn't tell me there was a dual diagnosis, I could also tell that she was developmentally disabled. My years of experience in the field was invaluable in this determination.
Claudia and Rich later admitted that they knew of her mental capacity limitations but they weren't going to let it diminish their love of their daughter and the opportunities she would have. I agreed with them wholeheartedly.
Throughout my months there, Tascha was a little bug. She'd sneak up on me and shout "boo", scaring me, so I had pick her up and to pretend to gobble her up.
She and I would sing together to amuse the other house mates. We'd both have our fake microphones and pretend to be the next best musical duet. She usually sang better than me though.
One day, Tascha jumped up on me as I lie on the couch watching TV in the living room. She said, loud enough for all the others to hear, "I want to be your girl friend, Mi-Coh! (That's how she pronounced my name). I said, smiling, "But I only like boys, Tascha!". She replied, "Then I want to be a boy!".
By the end of the year I had moved into a new apartment with Ric, a new friend from work. I needed to have my own place but I still kept in touch with my buds from Spinnaker Drive, including Tascha who came on the phone whenever I called.
In late January, I got a call at work, it was Rich, Tascha's dad. He told me that Tascha had been brought to the hospital overnight because she was severely sick. They found out it was because of a brain embolism. They did everything they could but she died.
So now, here I was, my eyes sore from crying, watching all Tascha's loved ones come before the congregation to speak about her. I looked at her little tiny corpse in the coffin, it looked fake. Plastic. I touched her cheek. It was cold and hard like a doll. Was this real? How could a youthful, energetic, vibrant little child end up like this?
My friends and I hugged, and even though I had exhausted all the tears I thought I could, I somehow cried again.