MaryB and the City

Ten.

On January 20, 2002, my friend Vivi passed away at 22-years-old. A drunk driver hit her car after running a red light. Ironically, she was the DD that night for friends who had been celebrating at a bachelorette party.

It was not his first DUI. The driver fled the scene and removed the plates from his limousine…in front of a Washington D.C. police station. Needless to say, he was caught, but did not serve nearly as much time as one would think.

She is one of my oldest comrades, growing up together in elementary, high school & college, attached at the hip. Vivi lived 5 minutes walking distance from my house and we had a lot in common. Her older brother and my older brother were in the same grade; her younger sister and my younger brother were in the same grade. We both sported unruly curly hair, had abnormally large athletic calves that could not fit into knee-high boots, and womanly curves that indefinitely taunted us to lose weight in an effort to not stick out next to our skinny minny friends.

We snuck out together, went shopping together, tried fad diets together, had sleepovers on a regular basis, and shared an unquenchable thirst for beauty products. And jewelry. And shoes. And boys.

Vivi was a force in this world of all things that are right.

Her skin literally glowed. Let me be clear — not metaphorically — but genuinely glowed (ok perhaps somewhat from an oily teenage epidermis, but mostly from the essence of her goodness).

The last time I saw her was 29 days prior to the tragedy. We were invited to a mutal friend’s Christmas party; I picked her up on the way over. While I waited for her to finish getting ready, I chatted with her beautiful younger sister {who today, is the spitting image of Vivi}. The experience was meaningful and our time together was high quality. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be my final encounter in her presence.

Mr. Big and I had just started dating. We were at his parents’ house, watching TV and eating lunch when the phone rang. It was the Christmas party host, our mutual friend on the line, who called to tell me the news. My manfriend came with me to the funeral a few days later, and was introduced to my Mother for the first time under horrific circumstances.

I wish he could have met known Vivi.

I’m notorious to have an unexplainable, acute intuition. Although I did not predict or even fathom that she would die a short while later, I did look at her differently the night of our party. I vividly remember gazing at her, observing her in a very distinct, almost surreal point of view. She was telling a story about her hairdresser, laughing, brown eyes sparkling. I consciously thought to myself from across the room, “she’s amazing” — and became temporarily lost in her radiance.

There is a sacred space inside my heart that believes this moment was a gift to me, in preparation for her passing. Vivi inadvertently taught me how to be present in the moment.

That is a gift I have held onto ever since and it changed my life far greater than I could even begin to explain. The expression to *treat everyday as if it could be your last* is not some new-age, warm and fuzzy rhetoric. It’s real.

Ten years ago today Vivi left this earth, and, left the single-greatest possession behind in the will of our friendship.

Consciousness.