She was Sarah Lea Richards,
the wife of Brian,
the mom of Hannah,
the daughter of Phil & Betty–
an accidental scholar,
a poet who read novels,
a poet who wrote short stories.
She was the blogger,
the pink-collar worker
in crimped hair & red lipstick–
a hot mess sometimes,
but never a cold dish.
She was a punster
who loved the Oxford comma,
the em dash,
& sometimes semicolons;
she was a wordsmith
who hated adverbs &
but loved words like topsy-turvy &
just because they made her smile.
She was a mathematician when she had to be,
who, if ever in Rome,
would write in Roman numerals.
She was a poor person’s philosopher,
an even poorer person’s astronomer,
& the kind of statistician one would get
if they were being served by a public defender.
She was one of Jamey’s angels
who had yet to earn her wings.
She was the newspaper jefe,
whose sense of humor
sometimes rankled her adviser.
She was the Writing Lab tutor,
who knew that subjects & verbs
but what about?
She was the boomerang child of Building 4,
the work-study gal
who made good.
She was a reliable narrator only
when on the beat,
but in the realm of fiction,
she was as unreliable as they came.
She was the family historian & documentarian,
for as everyone was the hero of their own story,
they were characters in hers.
She read people like books,
judging them not by their cover,
but by their content.
She was a woman of liberal arts &
She was a Health Info Tech major,
who saw it as a means to an end–
an end which would come in words,
rather than the alphanumerics
that comprised medical codes.
But such an endeavor,
so against her sense & sensibilities,
had not all been a waste,
for it had led her to here,
which would get her there–
even if there was still here.