Requiem for a Saturday morning

Aunt Betty and her youngest niece, May 1992.

 Feb. 23, 2013

Dearest Aunt Betty,

     You've missed so very much.

     And you yourself are missed even more. Every day, in every way. By so many of us.

     As I sit here in the home office writing this note to you — how many little notes did you send me over the years? I still have many of them, including the final one, written two decades ago yesterday — I can't begin to fathom how it's 20 years today that you were taken from us.

     I guess you shouldn't be too surprised that you're hearing from me today. You know you still hear from me on a regular basis. Even though you've been gone all this time, I never got out of the habit of talking to you. I just wish our talks didn't involve me doing all the talking. What I wouldn't give for you to materialize in the chair next to me and give me some advice just one more time. Not to mention a hug, a kiss and a couple of your chocolate chip cookies. ("Here, have a cookie. ... No, take two; one for each hand!")

     Of course, were you to show up right this second, you'd probably whack me across the back of the head for shedding a few more tears over you. Yes, I remember your instructions: "Remember me with laughter or don't remember me at all!" I'd like to think that usually I do a pretty good job with that, and I hope that today, of all days, you'll forgive me for being such a sentimental slob. You know I'm my father's daughter, after all; and you were always pretty fond of him. If he's allowed to cry (manly tears!), so am I.

     I just really, really, REALLY miss you.

     I miss your big, bold personality. Your laugh. The way you could make any person you talked to feel like they were the most important person on the planet.

     I miss your take-charge, can-do attitude. Over the years people have told me they admire how I can go into a situation I know next to nothing about, smile and say, "OK. I don't know how I'll do it, but it'll get done." I'd like to think I picked that up from you.

     I miss your overwhelming pride in our family.

     I miss your sense of fun. Your mischievousness.

     I miss the joy you brought along wherever you went.

     I miss Christmas Eves and birthdays and Easter morning egg hunts. I miss the stunned look on your face the year I asked why I wasn't allowed to eat the blessed food.


     I miss how it made me feel when I'd walk through your kitchen door and you'd greet me with a big smile, a hearty "Hi Laura Ann!" and an even bigger hug. Even if you'd just seen me the day before.

With her one and only grandson, Feb. 1991.

     I've got to tell you, though, that sifting through a box of photos to find a few to tuck in with this, it really struck me just how much time has passed.

     I mean, you've missed weddings, births. You have one more granddaughter now, by the way, and some very entertaining great-grands. I always tell that guy I married (Supportive Partner Man!) that you would have loved him. Deviled him endlessly about something or another, but loved him. I still think that you, from your perch on the next plane of existence, probably had something to do with sending him my way, so thank you.

     When you left, your favorite little buddy, your one and only grandson Tyler, had just turned 2 — no, 3 (I can't count this late at night). He's now a college graduate and a working man. My favorite little buddy, my one and only niece Kelly, was not quite 3. She just finished her first semester of graduate school. I looked through a whole host of pictures of their growing-up years, and couldn't help but wonder what you'd think.

     Somehow, though, I know.

     You'd be button-bustingly proud. Just like always.

     Anyway, I just thought I'd drop you a little note to check in. I hope you don't mind me sharing it with the general public, but I was feeling the need for a bit of late-night catharsis. (So what else is new, right?) And don't worry about me too much. I know you're never too far away, after all. You are, and probably always will be, the voice I hear in my head, the voice of my conscience.

    Thanks for helping to keep me sane and coming between me and disaster on more occasions than I'm probably even aware of. Please keep a special eye on my Mom; your sister really could use you right now. Oh, and be sure to give my love to all the Personal Saints, especially my redheaded friend.

     I'll talk to you again soon.
   

Signing off one last time, Feb. 22, 1993.

Sincerely with Love,

Laura Ann