04/23/2026
Grief came around this week.
My friend Veronica died. She was only 44.
I met Roni in my first job after college. She was, unofficially, the queen of the department. Beautiful and unruly. I instantly liked her.
When she told me she was sick, the first thing she said was,
“I’m sorry if I was ever a bitch to you back then.”
You were never a bitch to me. You were always a queen.
She once said she wanted to be like me when she grew up, then came her famous laugh, before explaining what she meant. She admired the way I expressed my depth. That meant more to me than she knew.
I wanted to be more like her, too. When we were young, she was carelessly cool, confident, a natural leader. I was sensitive and awkward.
As she got sick, her grace grew enormous. She was grateful for the smallest things. She fought so hard to stay in a world many of us take for granted.
She came to Jamaica with us, against the odds and between chemotherapy treatments. A dying wish.
We didn’t get what we ordered. The hurricane saw to that. But her smile was as wide as the sunset, her tears as real as the rain. And how she wanted to stay, even when the storm was coming.
We held a living funeral for her, telling her how much we loved her while she was still here to hear it. Her loved ones from all walks of life, in one place, to honor her.
On her last day, after days of silence, she whispered “Montego Bay.”
I like to think her mom came to get her.
And together, they were headed to the islands.
RIP Veronica 🕯️