Some people sail into your life and lighten every day. Kimmie was such a soul and her death after a long and difficult illness was wrenching for all who knew her. I knew her and loved her for a stretch of time during the eight years we shared a flat together in Palmers Green. Those years were precious and with Kimmie I shared some of the happiest times of my life.
Her family and friends gathered this week to pay tribute to Kimmie and honour her life. Work and animal commitments meant I watched her funeral service via a live feed which was surprisingly intimate and moving, if a little strange. Kimmie would have appreciated the laughter in the chapel, the hugs, the jokes, the mobile phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, the teasing tribute from her little brother Marc who had organised such a perfectly beautiful send off for his beloved sister, it makes me well up just thinking about it.
Losing a sibling is hard. You know them so well and they are such a huge part of early life experiences few others know about. Kimmie often spoke with fondness of her brother who was still in Australia while she worked in animation studios in London. Eventually he would follow her lead and move across continents to forge his own path in animation. Listening to Marc, it was evident how much love he had for his big sister. Indeed the crematorium chapel, one of those beige places that could be anywhere, was filled with overwhelming love.
It struck me so poignantly that this is what matters in the end. Kimmie was incredibly accomplished as a talented artist and this was mentioned, but not as much as how much she made people laugh. As Maya Angelo said, people may not remember what you said; they may not remember what you did, but they will always remember how you made them feel. Kimmie made us all feel blinking good. She was not keen on the limelight – finding photos of her was challenging because she was camera-shy despite her luminous beauty – and she made no attempt to put herself first. She was the best listener, warm, funny, wicked and tremendously kind. Her heart was like the sun. All who knew Kimmie, loved to bathe in it. She soothed many troubled souls, usually by taking them under her wing and off to the pub or out the back for a crafty fag.
I remember laughing with Kimmie until we were both crying, her wiping away the teary mascara from the wild eye makeup she always wore. We borrowed each other’s clothes, once memorably buying the same green jumper which we wore until they were in shreds. We shared recipes, many glasses of red wine, more cigarettes than was good for us, late night chats that felt transcendent as we navigated the joys and sorrows of love. Every conversation we had was about love on some level. Everything felt alive and vital and charged as we tried our best to stay level and grounded, keeping each other going, being there for each other no matter what.
Our friendship changed when we stopped living together, and if I had known then that I would mourn the close connection we had, I would have taken better care of honouring it. The last time we met was poignantly at a funeral for my close friend’s sister. We hugged and laughed and all the years between then and now, a span of more than 20 years, fell away. We were back in our shared front room with our wine and our fags and our tender hearts.
Kimmie has gone. She has flown elsewhere and she is more real than ever. This is the curious thing about loss. The most heartbreaking part of death is that it reminds us how connected we all are. When we lose a thread to someone we lose part of who we are. Part of me has gone with her, the young and insecure part of me that loved Kimmie like a big sister. Kimmie was the most warm-hearted person I think I ever met. The legacy she has left for me is to know that love is what matter most. Nothing you do is ever as important as how you make others feel.
After the service ended, I took a beer (non alcoholic these days) to the field with a packet of hula hoops, Kimmie’s favourite. I drank the beer and saluted her memory. She never met the horses, but always asked after them as if she knew them, which of course she did through their Facebook and blog appearances. Kimmie’s farewell song from Mary Poppins Let’s Go Fly a Kite was still playing through my mind as the celebrant said it might. I didn’t have a kite. Instead I tossed my last hula hoop in the air. That’s for you Kimmie, I said. My hound dived for it and snapped it up. My last tribute. Now Kimmie would have laughed.
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Horsemanship for Health 