Today is Desiree's funeral.
She was 25 years old, and died of a suicide and we are supposed to comfort each other when we gather.
The normal platitudes don't really fit. Are we going to remember the good times, the laughter, the joys of her life? To remember her is to sorrow, at this point. To revel in our lapses.
The mother, who gave her life, but also caused her to be born with AIDS.
The grandmother who cared for her, but also let her slip through her fingers so she would live in the street for years.
The pastor (me) who would support her on the street, but was too busy to reach out and connect with her when she was spiraling.
The long term boyfriend who made sure she was taking the proper medication and in a safe apartment for a while, but who left her.
The caretakers who watched over her, but didn't make sure that she wasn't overdosing on her own medication.
On the surface, we all seemed to care, we all prayed for her, but in the end we all failed her. She had a terrible life, a difficult life and we did what little we could. But if one of us could have done more, sacrificed a bit more for her, perhaps she would still be alive.