When I went to Chicago at the end of May, I met a wonderful young woman named Fabiola. She was part of “the New York delegation” at the conference. She was part of our crazy group when we went to Kingston Mines for dinner, good Blues and dancing, and she and I shared the 21-hour train ride back to New York. She was funny and smart and kind and inquisitive and had really enjoyed her day in Chicago after the conference. She had met some friends and gotten to sample some of the Mexican parts of town — shops, a school, a friend’s cooking of specialties from the same region Fabiola was from. A lot of our time on the train was spent sleeping, but we also had time to talk, and I came away from that trip really impressed with her energy and promise.
And yesterday I got an email saying that Fabiola is dead. Fabiola, with her beautiful Aztec last name and her pretty smile, with her probing questions, with her intelligence and spark. Dead. She was 22 years old. Pregnant. Newly married. She was hit by a truck on Saturday night. That quickly gone. This lovely, lovely young woman.
I spent most of yesterday not quite believing it. How could it be true? My brain just wasn’t able to take in the information. It has become real in my mind now, but is still unreal. I knew her so little, so I feel I don’t actually have a ‘right’ to be so sad over the loss of her, but how can I not be this sad?