rayjwinteraven | Farrah Fawcett, a part of my childhood.

"I want to be Kelly."
"No, your hair isn't long enough. You be Sabrina."
My sister, of course, was Jill, because she had the long thick flowing golden hair. My cousin was Kelly, which left me with Sabrina. It was a pretty name, and all three were beautiful and brilliant and amazing women; sure, it worked.

Now, I hear that Farrah Fawcett has terminal cancer. She's made a documentary, she'd fought it back once and it's come back, and she's having trouble. I wish I could contact her, to tell her what she means to me, and countless other women who were girls in need of a strong role model right when she and the other Angels were doing it all - driving buses, investigating crimes, shooting bad guys, rescuing people.

It must have been hard for Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith, in the golden goddess' shadow. I know it was hard to be in my sister's shadow. And yet that was a lesson for us too. They were strong anyway, they were competent, and Jill needed Kelly and Sabrina as much as they needed her.

One day, I'm going to read in the news that Farrah is gone. I'll thank her again for being a part of that summer day walking up behind my uncle's garage with my sister and cousin, weeds growing stubbornly through the gravel, and I'll cry.