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I was going to write a fluffy burble about the latest episode of Supernatural, but when I awoke from my nap, it was to learn that my Aunt Belle*, with whom I share a birthday, is dead. According to my Aunt S, she had been suffering from breast cancer that had metastasized into her lungs and brain. At the end, she recognized no one and did not even remember herself. She was fifty-two.
Before anyone rushes forth with condolences, know that I am not a sobbing mass of despair. In truth, Aunt Belle and I did not see much of each other after my parents' divorce twenty-two years ago. She was my father's youngest sister, and as far as my mother was concerned, there was little need for me to see my father's kin when my father was largely uninvolved in my life. The last time I saw Aunt Belle was my father's funeral in 1997, when her husband, Jim, after being informed that digging my father's grave would cost $800, popped open a beer and prosaically announced, "Get your shovel, Belle. We got some diggin' to do."
I've never laughed so hard in my life. The funeral director was quietly appalled.
I didn't know Aunt Belle as well as I would have liked, but there are things I do remember, like her smoky, rusty chuckle and the deep lines around her eyes. Her skin was cured leather, and her hands were hard and callused from years of doing a man's work in the boiling Florida sun. She had her only son when she was thirty, and when she did, she called him Boogey rather than his given name. When she was young, she once bested two men in a barfight when they wouldn't take "No" for an answer.
She's gone now, and I don't know what to do. Etiquette says I should call my uncle and offer condolences, but it's been nine years, and I'm afraid of the phone and the anguish that I will find in that gruff, beer-soaked voice, and I'm not sure I have any right to say anything after so long an absence from his life.
I'll have to figure it out soon, I suppose. The funeral is Friday. But Aunty Belle, if my fears and cowardice get the better of me, please know that I love you, and I always did, and when I think of you, I will remember that way you used to be-strong and vital, with sun-browned skin and that glorious, phlegmatic laugh that came from your gut.
Goodbye, Aunty Belle. Sleep well and deeply. Will you be there with your laughter when I finally come Home?
*Belle is not her real name.
Before anyone rushes forth with condolences, know that I am not a sobbing mass of despair. In truth, Aunt Belle and I did not see much of each other after my parents' divorce twenty-two years ago. She was my father's youngest sister, and as far as my mother was concerned, there was little need for me to see my father's kin when my father was largely uninvolved in my life. The last time I saw Aunt Belle was my father's funeral in 1997, when her husband, Jim, after being informed that digging my father's grave would cost $800, popped open a beer and prosaically announced, "Get your shovel, Belle. We got some diggin' to do."
I've never laughed so hard in my life. The funeral director was quietly appalled.
I didn't know Aunt Belle as well as I would have liked, but there are things I do remember, like her smoky, rusty chuckle and the deep lines around her eyes. Her skin was cured leather, and her hands were hard and callused from years of doing a man's work in the boiling Florida sun. She had her only son when she was thirty, and when she did, she called him Boogey rather than his given name. When she was young, she once bested two men in a barfight when they wouldn't take "No" for an answer.
She's gone now, and I don't know what to do. Etiquette says I should call my uncle and offer condolences, but it's been nine years, and I'm afraid of the phone and the anguish that I will find in that gruff, beer-soaked voice, and I'm not sure I have any right to say anything after so long an absence from his life.
I'll have to figure it out soon, I suppose. The funeral is Friday. But Aunty Belle, if my fears and cowardice get the better of me, please know that I love you, and I always did, and when I think of you, I will remember that way you used to be-strong and vital, with sun-browned skin and that glorious, phlegmatic laugh that came from your gut.
Goodbye, Aunty Belle. Sleep well and deeply. Will you be there with your laughter when I finally come Home?
*Belle is not her real name.
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