Diane L. Muraca

Some people slip quietly through life.

Diane L. Muraca did not.

When she entered a room, people noticed -- immediately, with murmured awe.

Diane occupied a category beyond beautiful. To call her "pretty" would be like calling Swan Lake a cute dance or Nessun dorma a nice little tune.

She was a petite woman -- the kind who might initially register as a little bird, until you realized the bird in question was a raptor.

What she lacked in size she made up for with velocity: personality, opinions, style, energy -- all delivered with unmistakable precision.

Diane was a New Yorker no matter where she lived. Geography had nothing to do with it.

Being a New Yorker is less about location and more about attitude: the ability to walk into any situation, take its measure, and decide whether it deserved your time. Usually it didn't.

She understood fashion instinctively. Trends were things that happened after she had already moved on. If a jacket, haircut, or pair of sunglasses suddenly appeared everywhere, there was a good chance she'd worn it six months earlier.

She was kind, but not particularly interested in being "nice," which are two entirely different things.

Niceness is about smoothing things over. Kindness is about showing up when it matters. She had no patience for the first but an abundance of the second.

Diane married her high school sweetheart, Paul J. Muraca, and together they built a life that included their daughter, Stephanie. Through good times and bad, they loved each other dearly. There was a small dog named Toto Too, who very quickly recognized Diane as the unquestioned queen of the household and worshipped her accordingly. Diane was also a terrific big sister to Debbie and Georgia, a role she carried out with patience, loyalty, and understanding. Completing the circle were five fabulous Haitkins, the cornerstone of every Thanksgiving feast and many happy memories.

It remains slightly baffling that someone so petite could leave such a large wake behind her. But then again, size was never really the point.

She was small, sharp, and shiny -- and the world is noticeably duller without her.