Sharon Jane doesn't have a cell or a computer.
No. She let us all know the old fashion way. She picked up her old landline and called all of our old landlines.
"Come celebrate Diana's life."
So, in the cool of a Monday evening - the night a theatre is dark - we gathered.
Faces still singing our selves from twenty-five, thirty years ago, we sat around pieces of the old willow tree from Avenue B and 6th Street, felled by Hurricane Sandy.
Took turns wearing chiffon arms from a beloved drag queen, and sent stories dancing around the circle, each one describing a part of the journey Diana - tall, strapping, big, strong, ferocious, independent - invited us on in brief moments and long months.
Mesmorizing us with wood chopping at a variety night,
Lending her truck, no questions asked.
Punching out the annoying wind chimes so she could hear a nature's night,
Dancing full out like she was the whole ballet. And she was.
Then the accident and refusing refusing refusing her injuries she would push herself in that wheelchair backward down and up Second Avenue she would be who she was she would return the videos to Blockbusters on 9th Street she would.
And even though she wasn't supposed to, still driving her pickup, and even though she couldn't like she could before, driving her soul, her life, her story, her words, her determination and one night down 5th Street a big-ass truck, shouting to Sharon Jane I'm chucking my storage.
We gathered around the space she left in our heart.
Then, suddenly looking up, there she was, right in our midst. Telling a story, driving her life, dancing full out.
Sunday Memories: Before the Days of Air and Conditioning
Sunday Memories: The Domino Effect
Thirty Years of Pressing My Nose Up Against the Bakery Window