Yesterday, Tomorrow died.
Tomorrow Imir Ingle, a black trans woman in a long line of miraculous rebirths and systematic, state sanctioned grand larceny. Black. Trans. Women. Irrevocably shortened lives memorialized in bookends, erasure bloodstained between.
She shouldn’t be a hashtag, and won’t be, but should be. She should not be dead.
They say the devil is in the details. They say she died alone in a crowded room. They say a reaping worked through her own hands. They say she is a statistic of an epidemic, a poison injected in her veins, a bittersweet ecstasy, a split second to simply exist in a place not made for her.
They is us is we. We killed her. We mourn her. We celebrate her, in whispers and wails, in wonder.
Her memory conjured up by grieving loved ones, the estranged and strangely familiar, floating, anchored, hand in hand, laying rest a world of difference housed in the same body. Her chosen and dead names sewn to teeth and tongue. Her funeral, an echo chamber. Her becoming, a death wish choked up in our throats. It should not be.
She should be. She should be. She should be. And yet.
We keep her close, release her to wishful, faithful, hopeful better in the best way we know how. Words spoken, broken hearts, written reports, vigils, funerals, moments of silence and rage and every feeling deserving of space? For they, us, we un/steady living, breathing in rhythm, protest, everything, nothing.
How incredible, how incredulous to rewrite her story for our gain, some semblance of healing. How easily, how violently we forget she needed and desired and hated and imagined and loved this side of glory. She stood before us and told us so. We turned eye and ear.
It’s not too late to listen to her voice, a heavenly chorus in a long line of miraculous rebirths. Hallelujah! She is not gone.
Yesterday, Tomorrow died. Yesterday claimed her body, but left with us what lives forever — her name. Tomorrow, always.