Cherrie: The Wild Flame

Cherrie was the baby, the last of the seven of us, and she came out swinging. That girl had more energy than a roomful of toddlers after birthday cake, and a temper that bordered on rage. I remember once, she chased me around the kitchen table with a knife. I was laughing the whole time, not because I didn’t take her seriously, oh, I did, but because she was that mad, and somehow, even in the chaos, I loved her for it. She felt everything deeply. Her love. Her anger. Her need to be seen.

She didn’t look like the rest of us, strawberry blonde hair, bright and soft and sun-kissed. The only one of us who didn’t fit the “Bates kid” mold. Daddy didn’t believe she was his. I think that crushed her in ways she never said out loud. She was just a child, but the weight of that rejection followed her like a shadow.

Momma had a “friend” back then, a man with the same strawberry hair. And while we all know DNA takes its turns between sides of the family, Grandpa had blonde hair too, it didn’t matter. In Daddy’s eyes, she wasn’t his. And something about that planted a hurt in her heart that bloomed into fury. I wonder now if that’s where her fire came from. That desperate need to be claimed, to be wanted.

She was the lucky one, though. At least that’s what I used to think. The year Momma left us on Daddy’s doorstep, that God-awful year, Cherrie was the only one she kept. While the rest of us stayed behind in confusion and pain, Cherrie remained wrapped in the only arms that never let her go. She grew up in Momma’s presence and never left it. Even as an adult, no matter where life took her, Momma was always there.

Cherrie married a man twice her age and had two sons. She was barely five feet tall, but her presence filled every room. Her weight ballooned, her health declined, but her heart, oh, her heart, was pure gold. She was broken, bruised, and often lost, but if you needed her, she was there. No questions asked. No judgment. Just fierce, loyal love, as wild and strong as her temper.

She made me laugh harder than most. She could cry with you, scream for you, or fight beside you in a second flat. And under all that fire, there was this softness, this need to be loved and understood. She clung to Momma like a lifeline, because she was her lifeline.

And then came the part I can’t rewrite, no matter how many times I’ve tried in my head.

Momma had pneumonia, again. Nearly died, again. I took her home with me. I thought I was doing the right thing, saving Momma. Giving her a break. Giving Cherrie a break, too, if I’m honest. I thought maybe it would help her, this space. This little bit of life without Momma hovering, doting, enabling. Maybe it would wake her up to her own strength.

But instead… she died. In her sleep. At 31 years old.

And the guilt? It’s a heavy thing. I took Momma with me, and left Cherrie behind. I should have saved her, too. I can’t shake the feeling that I should have taken her, too. But I simply couldn’t afford to take on Momma and her family. I still see her face as I backed out of the driveway that day. Momma was in the car, and Cherrie stood there, tears streaming down her face.

That’s the last time I saw her alive.

I’ve spent years wondering if I made the wrong choice. If somehow, I disrupted the balance that held her here. But what I know for sure is this: Cherrie loved hard, hurt deeply, and lived in a world that never quite matched her tenderness. She was wild and fragile all at once, and even though she’s gone, the memory of her laughter, her temper, her fierce hugs, they’re stitched into my soul.

She was more than the baby. More than the outlier with strawberry blonde hair. She was a wild flame, burning bright and beautiful for far too short a time.