Today is my Aunt’s birthday.

My Aunt is Maria’s mom.

Maria was shot and killed on her mother’s 60th birthday.

I’ll let that sink in for a second as your heart attempts to feel even a drop of the ocean of pain my Aunt likely feels today and will, perhaps, every year on her birthday.

The below was written in February 2022. Today feels an appropriate day to share.

2.25.22

I’m in a coffee shop in Tequesta, Florida. I’m sitting on a white painted bench leaning my elbows on a lacquered wooden table staring at my iced espresso becoming increasingly more iced than espresso-d. A blueberry muffin remains cozy inside the brown-bag-home the barista placed it in.

One wall of the coffee shop is painted with giant palm leaves and a neon pink lighted sign that reads “me & coffee are a thing”. I nod in agreement.

Another wall houses the coffee fixins’; cream, sugar and the like. Just to the left, is a make-shift shelf made from wooden planks nestled atop rows of tied rope. (The decor is on-point with required Florida aesthetic.) The shelves are home to the obligatory coffee shop t-shirts, big logo on the back, little logo on the top left of the front.

I bought two.

Across from my white bench is the menu wall; drinks written on a framed chalkboard and food written in sharpie on a massive brown paper roll. Both made to be edited at a moment’s notice when the avocado or chai run out.

The baristas mess with the music in a way I used to do when I was a barista in college. They waffle between Irish Jig to 2000’s rap to current Pop - it’s their place, they can play what they like. I watch them dance around as they wash and dry mugs, and I can’t help but smile feeling a sense of appreciation for my own time spent in such a job.

My gaze turns to the “please order here” sign as I watch a man describe what he wants. And I think: Maria stood there. In that very spot. How many times? Ordering her iced coffee to go, without the lid.

I wonder if she ever sat where I’m sitting. I wonder if she owned a Perk t-shirt. I wonder if she smirked at the neon pink sign as I did. Which barista served her? Do they know her? Do they miss her?

*my chin quivers and a tear falls from my right eye*

Across the street is the Lighthouse Art Center where she worked. Where she essentially lived and also where she loved. I just came from there, attending the dedication of the Jewelry Room in her name.

The Lighthouse was her second home housing her second family. She was an instrumental player in creating its culture. How you feel when you walk in. The vibe, the energy - it screams Maria. I am angry at myself for not making it a priority to visit her while she was still here, on this earth.

Instead, I visit these places that she loved, begging to feel even a whisper of her presence.

I walk towards my rental car and take a big swig from my now Americano, using the lid that I could’ve forgone to further aid in the landfill reduction…I think: Maria was a better person than me. Than most. She should still be here.

I turn my car on, blast the A/C and start navigation to Singer Island.

You see, I had this thing I needed to do.

I needed to go to where Maria was murdered.

I needed to stand in the place she stood while on a Zoom call with me less than an hour before she was shot in the head from a stray bullet.

I needed to be in the space she was last in before she was taken from this earth.

It was December 6, 2020. Her life was on the precipice of climax. 25 days from getting married. On track for a huge promotion at the Lighthouse. Beginning renovations on the first house she and her fiancé, C, purchased together the month prior. The same month, November, she celebrated her 32nd birthday.

We had just spent almost 1.5 hours on a Zoom call as I forced Maria and C to tell me the story of their love. I was preparing to marry them, in 25 days, on New Year’s Eve in our grandparent’s backyard in Houston. I received my ordained minister’s license and now all I needed was the perfect wedding script to make their day magical.

I never intended to keep them on the video call for this long, but the details kept flowing and so did my questions.

The conversation started with Maria giving me a virtual tour of their new house. Despite being under construction at the time, she still managed to paint me a beautiful picture of the final vision.

We then jumped into their relationship’s early stages where they met in Hawaii, C falling in love with Maria’s dedication to her craft (and her beautiful, curly mane). Maria remarking with a playful tease how C’s first line was “Hi, I’m C. I have three first names.”

We continued talking until the time they needed to leave for Singer Island as C played frisbee with friends every Sunday. Maria joined, sitting in the sand watching the fun unfold. So, the whole drive to Singer Island we chatted until they reached the parking lot where C said goodbye and Maria and I wrapped up for another 10 minutes or so.

She held the iPad and casually circled around in the parking lot as we spoke, allowing me to catch glimpses of her background.

Abundant palm trees. A wing’s place. A pizza restaurant. A fitness center.

We recorded the conversation so that I could reference it later as I built my wedding script.

I’ve never been more thankful for recording something in my life.

I said goodbye to my Sussin and we exchanged our love.

30 minutes later my paternal grandmother, Mimi, calls me to tell me Maria has been shot in the head and to pray…

….

…..

……

what?

……..

I was just talking to her.

I still remember exactly how I felt after that call. It was December and cold, I walked outside in our front yard. I looked up with furrowed brows. Confused. Angry. Powerless. And…pregnant with my third child.

It was cold. My deep exhales glowed under streetlights; visible from afar. My eyes darted from object to object. A tree, the neighbor’s house, the power lines, the church across the street, a mailbox - as if one of them had relief to offer me or the answers to my infinite questions.

*sigh* That’s enough for today. Florida Part II another time.

I miss you Sussin. More than this cathartic blog could ever rectify.