Katie
was my first niece and remains my only Godchild. I feel as though
I have been laughing with her for seventeen years. One time
I came to visit she literally and repeatedly fell down on the
kitchen floor in hysterics (the good kind...her parents bore
the brunt of the bad kind later on). In fact I don’t think
I’ve ever fought with her. Even at her most deliciously
bad, my reprimanding her always elicited a giggle of acknowledgment.
I loved this about her. She never took herself or the rest of
us too seriously. She had nothing against perfection. It just
wasn’t interesting. She’d rather be fabulous.
Katie and
I were soul mates in mischief. She could barely talk and I’d
encourage her to imitate family members (a practice, to set
the record straight, that was equally encouraged by her mother,
the reigning premier practitioner of the art). It was never
a stretch to get her to go along with a prank. I can’t
ever remember her saying “We shouldn’t.” One
summer we made a hilarious horror-movie trailer about killer
balloons. We also did a radio show with a nerdy host Simon Weedwhacker
(me–she loved that voice) interviewing a cheesy bubblehead
named Candy (Katie). Wreaking havoc with Katie and her sister
Nina was the best way to spend my poor excuse for a summer vacation.
Even
with all she had going for her (artistic gifts and a beautiful
bombshell), Katie was also a regular teenager who’d agonize
over a pimple, a pair of shoes or a boy (in just that order
of importance). But she was also an original thinker, often
taking the contrary position from the rest of the family, sometimes
genuinely, sometimes just to rile them up. As many strong opinions
as she had, I don’t think she got them from anyone else.
It is very rarely that I see in my mind’s eye Katie as
she was in the hospital those final days. I see her perched
adorably on top of a camel at the zoo; exuberantly awaiting
the descent of the log flume; smiling at her family in the bleachers
as the tiniest player on the basketball team. I remember the
night she roamed the streets at my side as we both looked for
her dog. I see her sketching unselfconsciously in every room
of the house, having no idea her uncle would snatch the drawings
she left around if only to retain a piece of her. This not an
uncle trying to block unhappy memories. It is impossible for
me to think of Katie as anything other than radiantly alive.
