Kiyauna Wilkinson

Kiyauna “Rickelle” Wilkison, 26, passed away peacefully at home in Newburgh, Indiana, surrounded by love, on Sunday, September 20, 2026, at 7:35 a.m.

Rickelle was born on December 20, 1999, in Atlanta, Georgia. She came to her family through foster care at two and a half years old, after doctors said she had already surpassed her life expectancy. Her mom understood that loving Rickelle might mean losing her far too soon and chose her anyway. From the moment she came home, Rickelle was wanted—completely, fiercely, and without condition. She was officially adopted at five years old, and spent the next two decades surrounded by a family who adored her, proving one thing abundantly clear: predictions had absolutely no authority over her.

Rickelle may not have used words to communicate, but no one who knew her ever wondered what she was thinking. She was sassy, decisive, stubborn, dramatic, resilient, and a bit of a diva—in the very best way. Her eyes said everything and rarely left room for interpretation. When she had no interest in therapy or school, she simply closed them and pretended to be asleep until the offending party moved along. It was an effective system.

She was the princess of the family, she knew it, and the rest of us were her happy subjects.

Rickelle loved painted nails, yummy lip gloss, fluffy blankets, Strawberry Shortcake, music, swinging, and being told how beautiful she was. And she was beautiful—with perfect natural eyebrows, a gorgeous complexion, soft kinky-coily hair, and a smile worth a million dollars. She enjoyed being fussed over and swooned over, preferably for no more than about four minutes before everyone left her alone. She disdained big lights and too much Barney, but a soothing man’s voice was another matter entirely; if Rickelle held court, LeVar Burton of Reading Rainbow would have been her prince.

Sweet treats were another favorite, and her family always kept a hidden stash just for her. Her sisters were particularly fond of sneaking her tastes of ice cream, frosting, or anything else they thought she deserved to try, and Rickelle would happily lick and smack her lips until not a trace remained. She also loved her “Rickelle doll,” given to her by Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital in Atlanta. With brown skin, brown eyes, and long brown hair, the doll looked like her, so naturally, she became the “Rickelle doll” and remained with her throughout her life.

Rickelle loved her family fiercely, though she preferred most of us in appropriate doses. Mom, however, was the exception. Angela was the first person Rickelle stopped crying for when she came home and remained her greatest source of comfort. Mom was certainly not immune to the sass and drama, but like so many daughters, the older Rickelle became, the more she found herself wanting and needing her mom.

Her siblings knew the rules: greet the princess upon entering, tell her how pretty she was, and respect her social battery. She loved listening to her sisters sing, and we all learned which alarms meant what and came running when she needed us. Even her teenage brother Kaleb—at an age when being too cool comes with the territory—knew all her sounds by heart and never hesitated to answer them. Rickelle had an entire household trained, and she ruled her small monarchy well.

She adored her nephews, Rylen, Kendrell, and Tatum—especially once they were old enough to love on her in return—and welcomed baby Harper into a family that had spent a lifetime happily orbiting around her.

For most of their lives, Rickelle, Elijah, and Christopher shared a room and slept beside one another. But the bond between Rickelle and Elijah was something all its own. They shared nearly everything without ever needing to say a word, and when Elijah laughed, it was the one thing almost guaranteed to make Rickelle smile, too.

Together, Rickelle and Elijah also appeared to derive a suspicious amount of enjoyment from keeping their nurses on their toes. One would alarm, then the other, seemingly taking turns while the adults scrambled around them. We remain fairly convinced this was intentional.

When Elijah died in January 2025, Rickelle lost her yellow.

For nearly twenty-two years after coming home, Rickelle had not truly cried. She could holler, protest, object dramatically to the appearance of the hair-bow bucket, and make her displeasure pause the whole household—but there were no tears. After Elijah died, she cried real, physical tears for two weeks.

In the months that followed, Rickelle grew quieter, and her family would see only one more smile. During a hospitalization in August, her sister played “I Smile” by Kirk Franklin, hoping to coax one out. It wasn’t until Mom arrived that Rickelle finally broke into an enormous grin—the first since Elijah died, and a moment her family will carry forever.

Rickelle had been indigo since Elijah left, and now there is comfort in believing she has her yellow back.

Her family imagines Rickelle and Elijah together again, free from bodies that asked so much of them here—running, dancing, playing, and talking over one another after a lifetime without spoken words. They undoubtedly have twenty-some years of secrets to spill, and Lord, help the rest of us now.

Caring for Rickelle and Elijah became woven into the fabric of all of our lives, as did everything they gave us in return. The joy, laughter, tenderness, perspective, and a depth of love we never could’ve predicted. They gave far more than they ever required and forever changed our understanding of what makes a life meaningful. Given the choice, we would choose them again—a million times over.

Rickelle was a born fighter who surpassed every limit ever placed upon her. Her family could never quite determine whether it was an extraordinary will to live or sheer spite. Knowing Rickelle, it was probably both.

The hole Rickelle leaves in our hearts is immeasurable. But Rickelle did what she had always done: she left on her own terms, in her own time, at home, surrounded by the people who loved her most. After nearly twenty-seven years of proving everyone wrong, the princess decided for herself when court was adjourned.

Rickelle’s life and indomitable spirit will live on through her mom, Angela Sendmeyer; siblings: brothers, Michael Garrison, Tyler Stewart, Christopher Wilkison, Carlos Stewart, Adam Wilkison (Emily Reiner), Alfredo Stewart, Jaden Sendmeyer, and Kaleb Sendmeyer; sisters, Alex Wilkison (Lillian Pineda), Taylor (Zachariah) Armstrong, Hannah (Christian) Willis, Bethany Stewart, Cynzier Sendmeyer, and Harper Hadad; her beloved nephews, Rylen Wilkison, Kendrell Rust Sendmeyer, and Tatum Armstrong; grandparents Marlene Jones, Ralph and Mary Wilkison, and Barbara O’Brian; and countless others who loved her dearly.

Rickelle was preceded in death by her beloved brother and lifelong companion, Elijah James Wilkison; her sister, Tiffany Rust McKinnon; her Aunt Jackie Stewart; and her papals, Harold Jones and Gene O’Brian.

Our deepest gratitude goes to the nurses, educators, therapists, physicians, and first responders who cared for Rickelle throughout her life and came to know her for exactly who she was: funny, stubborn, beautiful, and wonderfully opinionated. Thank you for learning her language, sharing in the laughter and the worry, and most of all, for loving her with us. Your love and care will never be forgotten.

It was one of the greatest honors of our lives to call Rickelle our daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, and ours.

We love you, sister.

Her big sister,

Taylor