the last time i saw phumzille she was laying in bed on her back looking through me while i read to her in broken zulu. she had asked me to come by and read, so i did. she couldn't speak. she couldn't smile. her breathing was labored beyond what i thought her little body could perform. i hate to write this because im ashamed i noticed, but she smelled like bile and old urine. the room felt and smelled and looked like hopelessness... but we didn't let it swallow us. we read together. we read of Jesus and his hope. we read about a man who came to save and not condemn. we read a story that changed our lives. we read in broken zulu but not in minor tone. i cried a little and held her hand while she breathed and tried to whisper.
she died a few days later. i hope i wasn't the only one who cried. i walked in her room and the bed was made. the sheets were pulled tightly around the matress. i was told she had died like one might be told a friends pet had run away, and only after she started to walk away did the nurse stop and talk about phuzille like she was a person. and she wasn't just a person. she was a girl. and she was a funny girl. and she was a funny girl who liked to be read to. and she was a funny girl who liked to be read to while having lotion rubbed on her feet. and she was found. and she liked who she was becoming more than she hated who she used to be. and she was pretty. and she didn't eat her dinner because the smell made her sick. and her story is still beginning. and she liked grape soda.
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