Jessica has something ferocious and mystifying about her. Her blood runs purple with royalty, pumping hard and fast. Her body cannot contain her. She deals with her pain honestly, without apology or self-consciousness. As I watched her address the crowd of people present to honor the life of her mother, I marveled at the poise that comes only in the wake of mourning. She has been cleansed by fire, brightened by torrents of tears, renewed by the support of others. I nearly had to cover my eyes for her blinding presence. It feels too sacred, almost embarrassing, too private and pure a thing to witness someone genuinely just BE, especially when that particular state of being is shrouded in the black of mourning.