I do not know if Michele was great in the conventional sense, but I can explain why she was one of the most important people in my life, therefore great, at least in my eyes.

Obituaries are difficult for most columnists to write, especially yours truly, because one must explain why someone was memorable; in other words, why they are worth a detailed obituary, and why strangers should read that obituary. Consequently, I avoid them at no small cost, preferring to pay whatever respects I may have as quietly as possible. Michele Curran, my cousin, provides here a notable exception. I do not know if Michele was great in the conventional sense, but I can explain why she was one of the most important people in my life, therefore great, at least in my eyes.

No greater overall tribute can be offered Michele than the hundreds of friends and family members who gathered at her memorial service three days ago. As my family and I arrived, the line to get into the service began at the door, snaked around the building and lead to the sidewalk. (By the time the line began moving, its size had perhaps doubled, if not tripled.) At some point it occurred to me the legitimate wonder of such a scene, that someone so young could inspire such an outpouring of love, appreciation and respect.

The details of Michele’s death are unpleasant and extraordinarily unjust, even for death. And yet, in the hours that followed the service, people mingled outside the funeral home, hugging, shaking hands, laughing, crying, remembering. Later on at the family home, more of the same accented with what long ago became the typical Curran family buffet lunch. Here I noticed, and commend as heartily as my talent will allow, the scene’s remarkable stoicism, one that refused for a moment to allow anyone there to burden themselves with the depravity of the circumstance, only allowing them to rejoice in the memory of her.

On March seventeenth 1985, I watched my aunt Shirley accept a phone call informing her of my mother’s death. Though I wouldn’t directly be informed for hours, the reaction on her face told the story. Soon thereafter, my younger brother and I were taken to, essentially, play with Michele and her sister while things were being worked out at home. The four of us sat around an old record player rapidly interchanging 45s. Even in knowing what I knew, I took solace in the fact the other three didn’t know – for the time being, didn’t have to know, or share the burden of knowing – and that they themselves, on the day my childhood ended, were so wonderfully alive.

For seventeen years my memory has retained a vivid vision of the faces in that room, of Michele Curran, her sister Cherie and my brother Josh sitting around that record player, laughing. This is how I will remember each of them, no matter how many years will pass, with an unwavering fondness. I extend here my deepest sympathies to Michele’s father John, mother Kelly and sister Cherie.