One week ago, my aunt Alice passed away. At 93, she had lived a long and happy life, ending her time on this mortal sphere still living in her own home, surrounded by a lifetime of belongings and photos and loved ones. It is how we all would wish to go, but for those left behind, it is always a struggle to let go.
The price of love is the grief you feel when they are gone. The cost is very high, although, of course it is worth the price. But that does not make it easier in the moment. And this moment is painful.
Alice was mom's sister, and as the youngest two in their family, and so close in age, they were together all the time as they grew up - playmates, best friends, and partners in all their shenanigans. They carried that into their adulthood, and their close relationship was a comfort for me, too, in myriad ways. Our families spent holidays, vacations, and weekends together all the time, and the close relationship between them extended to their families. Those memories are some of the happiest memories I have of childhood, and I cherish each and every one.
I could give a list of facts and figures about her personality and likes and hobbies and activities, and it would give a superficial picture of the person she was, and it would be accurate. For example, I think one of the first things most people who knew her would mention was her sense of humor and fun. She was one of the wittiest people I know. She always had a quick riposte to anything she heard, and you had to be very quick on your feet around her or you would be the object of her humor. She always reminded me of Carol Burnett growing up, and I mean that as one of the greatest compliments I could give to anyone. (She kind of looked like her, too!)
But those facts and figures wouldn't touch the real person inside, which is the person I want to remember most. Because when I think of my aunt, I think of the unconditional love which she offered to everyone in her life who was important to her, and to me personally. No matter what was going on, she just loved me, purely and without qualification. It is a rare trait in this very conditional world we live in, and I treasure that quality above anything else.
She and my uncle Bud opened their home to many of us in different ways. For me, the door was always open, any time, day or night. As a kid, I could spend a few days there and I was just part of the family. It didn't matter what else they had going on, I was just absorbed into the fabric of their family life and brought along. In my freshman year of college, when I needed a break from the dorm life, I could walk through the door and stay for a minute or an hour or overnight, and I was always welcome without question.
This is not to say they were always pleased with my behavior or choices. On the contrary, because they cared about me and who I was going to become, they didn't hesitate to correct me when they needed to. But that is also an act of deep love, because you wouldn't bother if you didn't care. But at the end, the love was still freely given and never conditioned on my behaving myself or being who she wanted me to be. I was loved, purely, simply and completely, just as I was, and for who I was.
I never doubted until the day she died that I was not just welcome, but wanted, in her life. Her last words to me were "I love you." What a blessing to leave to a grieving niece.
I am grateful for the footprint that my aunt left on my heart. She took a small piece of me with her when she left us, as those we love deeply always do. But she left a small piece of her in my heart, too, and I will always cherish the memories of days spent in her presence. I will always deeply miss her, but I take comfort in the knowledge that some day we will once again be together with those we love.
Until that day, I take comfort in Psalm 34:18, which promises me that "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." Love you lots, Tootsie.
