The Missing One

Today should have been Colleen Compher's fortieth birthday.

We lost her to a heroin overdose in April of 1996, meaning her body would never see the ravages of time and diet that our thirties, forties, etc. have brought to those that survive her. She was my friend, my good friend. Some of my friends were fortunate enough to get even closer to her than I was, but here I speak of things that I know of only a little. These friends know her better than I did. I just consider myself lucky to have known her the time that I did, for she was a rare individual who's outside beauty matched most of what was inside.

What sticks me in the heart to this day was that it seemed like H was a demon she had slain. I hate heroin, it's toll in my life and our culture has been too fucking significant. I've never done it, and I never will; I hope anyone not recognizing the wisdom of these words will just take my word for it. Because of my vicarious experiences with it, any news of someone familiar to me taking it is like hearing that same someone has received a death sentence. It becomes a matter of time. For Colleen, I reckon it was probably around 13 - 14 years. I am sure some eyes that see these words may be able to correct any error I may have made in regards to time frame; I'm sure you see my point.

I met her at Eric Shaeffer's house in 1984, along with Monique White. Colleen was dating Rainier, my friend Renard's brother. I didn't really get to know Colleen until a little later, when Renard, Andrea and I had a place in Torrance. She would move to Toronto at least once in the 1980's; we remained in fairly close contact after her eventual return and up until the time of her death. Not close enough for me to have been aware of her return to heroin, but I doubt I could have done anything even if I knew.

I am just really sorry that she got caught up in it.

I love and miss you Colleen.