“Can you write something about me?”
Aunt Del was so genuine, so kind, so soft-spoken. And this request was so simple.
“Yes!” I said. “Absolutely. Yes, I will.”
And I meant it.
That was March 16, 2018, the day when I sat next to Aunt Del, someone who has always meant “family” to me in the deepest sense of the word. It was the luncheon after the funeral for Uncle Bernie, my dad’s oldest brother. Aunt Del had read my Facebook post about Uncle
That’s when she looked at me and – in all sincerity – asked if I’d write about her that way, too.
And I nearly cried. “Yes!” I told her.
And I INTENDED to do it.
And now she’s gone.
I love to write – it allows me to pour my feelings and my soul out. It’s always been so for me. And it made my heart soar that words written from so deep could mean so much that they could bring comfort or joy to people I care about.
But I also realized at that moment that my words have been too, too late. Words written after someone dies may bring comfort to me and sometimes to loved ones. But they will never, ever be heard or read by the very people who’ve inspired me to write them.
UNLESS … I choose to remember
So
From here, I hope to do better: I’d like to remember as many people as I can with words they can read NOW, while they are still here with me. I hold all of you in my heart, and the words that bubble up each time I think of you should not be pushed back down only to see light after you are gone.
So, here goes. I CHOOSE to remember you.
Aunt Del
Aunt Del, I will always remember your kind, kind face and soft voice. You always had this serenity about you, a gentleness that I see so much in all your own kids and their kids. There was always something so CALMING about being near you.
For most of my life, that softness and serenity seemed cloaked in happiness – joy at life with the man you loved and the family who surrounded you. It was so hard to see the raw pain you experienced after Uncle Tom’s death a few years ago. He was your other half, yes. But he was more than that. There are some people who complement one another in marriage; you and Uncle Tom COMPLETED one another.
For most of my life, you and Uncle Tom were inseparable. I know people say this about some married couples, but for the two of you I think you genuinely were two halves of a whole. It’s as if when you met, your souls merged and you melded into Tom&Del. Even when I was little, I remember you sitting close, hand-in-hand, Uncle Tom calling you sweet things. And when he died, I have to believe a part of you did, too. Because how could it be otherwise? Your love was so clear and complete.
Do you know what a wonderful example the two of you set for all of us?
You also found so much joy in being a mother, a grandma
I didn’t realize how much you enjoyed gardening. But I have learned in the past few weeks that you loved your flowers and tended to them the way you tended to your loved ones – with gentle care. It makes me wonder what else I didn’t know about you. I tend to freeze-frame around those years when I saw you every Sunday at Grandma’s house. I’m afraid there’s much I’ve missed.
What I do know is that for my entire childhood you – along with Uncle Tom; Uncle Bernie & Aunt Bev; Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb; and my parents – formed a cocoon for all of us cousins and our kids. I’d look at all of you and say, each time we’d get together, how very lucky I felt to have such a loving and wonderful family. How you all set wonderful examples of parenthood and respect and love.
Just as you tended your flowers, you tended your family garden. The roots of the family tree you and Uncle Tom planted are strong. The branches are hearty. Each child – each blossom – is unique and beautiful and a reflection of you – the gentle gardener, the soft-spoken mother, the cherished Aunt Del.
Aunt Del, I will always remember you.
