Auntie - Sex~Kitten.net

The second funeral I ever attended was the first time my heart ever had been broken. The copper casket sitting before my eyes in a small church held the one woman, up to that moment in my life, who had ever truly loved me (or so my young mind believed). I was thirteen years old and as I approached the box shrouded in a spray of flowers, I broke down. My heart ached and my mind swirled with already fading memories of my great-aunt.

To truly understand the attachment I had, one would need to be equipped with the knowledge that I had one grandmother living in Germany who not only spoke no English, but had not visited since I was two or three years old. My paternal grandmother disavowed any relationship with my family because she hated my mother. Taking the place of any grandparent was my great-aunt, who treated us as if we were truly her grandchildren. One would also need to understand the emotionally abusive relationship I had with my mother, which left me feeling unloved and unimportant.

My great aunt and I spent many lazy weekends together. We would walk in the park looking for left-over money from the previous night’s drug deals, picking up tennis balls hit over the fence of the tennis court, collecting giant pinecones for her Christmas display and enjoying each other’s company. She was the first woman who made me feel as if I was special, who would sit and listen to me talk about everything and nothing all at once. As I grew older, we bonded over stories of her youth and card games. There was nothing I couldn’t tell her and never a moment when we were together where I felt unsafe or unwanted, such a drastic difference from my home life.

She wasn’t perfect and never pretended to be. I suppose part of what made me admire her so much was that she never seemed to dwell on her imperfections, rather took them for what they were and never apologized for who she was. She smoked like a chimney, but managed never, not even once, to smell like cigarette smoke. Her house never smelled of it either, which never ceases to amaze me after having spent even a few minutes in a bar and coming out with that inescapable stench. She swore like a sailor and was probably the original model for road rage studies.

To most people, it wouldn’t appear to have been a relationship more special or meaningful than any other close relationship, but it was a saving grace. Her house and her love was a sanctuary for me, a place I was free to be the kid I wasn’t always allowed to be at home. She protected me, she doted on me and she gave me hope and the inspirational knowledge that I was worth her love and affection. She also bought me large amounts of stickers to add to my collection, only adding to my abundant affection for her.

Every memory of my great-aunt is filled with joy and happiness, feelings I didn’t find again until long after she was gone. As the days, months and years passed after her death, I discovered what a remarkable gift she had given me. She nurtured me in ways no one else was able to; she gave me the support and faith that few others in my life, even now, have given. She was proud of me before any other and never made me work for her love and friendship. She taught me to laugh harder and louder, and though I still have trouble remembering what her voice sounded like, the one thing I never have forgotten is the way she used to laugh. In the moments I feel saddest about her being gone, I hear the throaty laughter and know that she’s still in my heart, loving me and proud of the woman I’ve become. Every time I laugh, a piece of it is for her.