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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
5.24 m
Wingspan
6.18 m
Weight
625.8 kg
Genetics
Yellow
Iridescent
Iridescent
Peridot
Butterfly
Butterfly
Turquoise
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 5 Skydancer
EXP: 1516 / 5545
STR
5
AGI
9
DEF
5
QCK
8
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
6
Biography
.:: HELLO! ::.
You are about the read the second part of a two-part tribute!
If you haven't seen the first part and would like to peruse it before reading Leona,
please click the orchid below.
You are about the read the second part of a two-part tribute!
If you haven't seen the first part and would like to peruse it before reading Leona,
please click the orchid below.
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"In Loving Memory"
Sept 1961 ~ Feb 2015
"I named you after my birthplace so that I'd remember you whatever happens"
(she didn't) She doesn't tell you how much it hurts, even when it hurts so much. She doesn't communicate at all, except when she wants her love language to be touched-- when she wants to be served. Most of the time, she doesn't even know what she wants. "Can you... boil the laundry?" "Can you... uhhh...." (she'll figure it out in thirty minutes... maybe) Would it make a person a liar if they didn't tell her that her mother called when she was in the ICU, or would it be better to consider what she'd feel when she was told that her mother cried about having no one to pay the bills? Would it hurt her if she was told that her mother tried to ask money from the medical insurance to sustain her own expenses? We'd never know. She never understood the implications of those words. Maybe, she didn't care. She doesn't remember who cried crocodile tears to get some aid. She smiles and waves at people who acknowledge her presence without knowing who they were. She started having trouble walking. And then speaking. And then thinking. She grew mad at herself. She used to be obsessed with orchids and now you know it's daisies. She'd get mad when she's given the food she used to crave every day, claiming that she didn't like it. She broke her own safe because she wanted to know what was in it (and, as usual, refused to wait until someone who knew how to open it came home). She used to hate the dog but now she chases after it (she even got another!). And yet, with all the changes she'd gotten, there was one thing that didn't: her obsession with giving. First, it was her personal belongings. And then, she stopped going to doctors and drinking meds, so that she has something to give when someone asks. Even when she fulfilled her dream of visiting her favorite aunt in a faraway province, she was the one who gave, even if it meant being extremely frugal with herself. It was the last week of January when her other aunt died, in which she attended the wake for the entire week to socialize with all the family members she hadn't gotten to see in years, in which she was spotted eating and laughing to her heart's content. She said it was extremely delighting to see all the faces she'd grown with, all on the same place. She'd come out early and come home late, just catching up with the people who'd gone astray. On the last night of the wake, she musingly asked, "If I were to die, how long would you hold the wake for me?" It's not the kind of question you expect at midnight, after fighting a friend to defend your willingness to stay in the house despite emotional oppression. I didn't answer. I was forced to make that decision a week later, when she died painlessly, soundlessly, in her sleep. |
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