Photo: Raphaela in Egypt with friend

Raphaela Seroy, Incomparable Jewel

By Michael Cooke

Raphaela Seroy passed on August 5th, 2024.

Once, she telephoned me with the following: “… I fought going to latihan tonight. I fought it. Can you imagine?” (so warmly, lovingly):  ”The latihan? How can one fight such a thing? The latihan… How silly. Poor me that I would fight doing the latihan.”

A class of her own was Raphaela. She was beautiful inwardly and outwardly. She had surprise in her, amusement, an easy natural quizzicalness, a wonderful sense of humor and appreciator of humor. She loved to laugh. And her smile was infectious. She was an excellent cook too.

She had a given empathy, extraordinarily sensitive and caring. She was inherently gentle, interested, loving and much loved.

One of Raphaela’s primary character elements was an odd contrariness that appeared to hamper her yet at the same time was one of her most endearing qualities: a deep-rooted shyness. Somehow, without that distinct very Raphaelian shyness, Raphaela simply would not be Raphaela.

For she was preternaturally shy. So shy it must’ve been something of a torture for her. At any given time or circumstance she would routinely hunch her shoulders inward as if to make herself invisible. She would do this unexpectedly, with or without a trigger or cause that might tack on to her innate shyness. Her effort was as if she could surpass the physical realm and actually dissolve herself. Thank God it didn’t work. – Yet it was so a part of her nature, compelling and sublimely captivating. – There’s a quote I didn’t know at the time. Raphaela’s expanse as a person would’ve loved it, despite her being the definition of it: “Shyness is radiance that doesn’t know what to do with itself.” Raphaela was radiance.

So much, so much to be shared about her without the space to expound. Raphaela was like a welcoming overflow of fresh water surrounding you in a cove.

But Raphaela running must be noted.

We’d gone to the beach of a late summer, early fall – a cool breeze. Raphaela, in her classic outfit, a loose fitting top and pair of jeans. We were walking towards the ocean’s edge. Instinctively, she suddenly broke away, hunching her shoulders as she moved into an easy jog towards the sea. She was barefooted. When she reached the water’s edge she leisurely sauntered to the left and then right, took a spin round a few times with her arms outstretched. Then turning towards the sea she fixed her stance, legs apart as if commander of her vessel peering out to her Mistress’s endless ocean. And then like a rapid clap of thunder she did the astonishing. She broke off like a bolt of lightning into a full blown run, racing on the wet sand by the water’s edge so fast my eyes could hardly keep up with her. The thrust of her, her dizzying speed, as if she were a live Olympian goddess jetting. Then too abrupt, too jolting she jaggedly halted with a grating stop. It was a painful shock. It was as if Poseidon’s trident, his three-pronged spear landed directly in front of her forbidding her to run. She stood there frozen. After a moment she collected herself, pulled back and began sluggishly walking back to where I’d been standing. Her head down, her pace slow, she looked sad. She approached me. I said to her, myself also mournful, “Why did you stop? You were amazing! You were astounding!” She looked at me forlornly, guilelessly acknowledging, “I know. I could feel it.” I continued, “It looked as if you would have taken off into the sky, flown away, disappear into the cosmos you were running so fast.” She looked directly into my eyes, “I got scared.” I said I understood, put my arm around her shoulder and we walked back up, away from the sea.

My father loved the famous short story writer O.Henry. He used to quote to me a brief seemingly ‘unintended’ poem O.Henry had set down from one of his stories.

“Describe her?
You would have to command words to perform miracles.
She is made of sunshine and deep shade.
She is like the alders and moves with their grace.
When she is here, heaven is all about her.
But when she is gone there is chaos
And the scent of hawthorn blossoms.”