Nearly 30 years ago, while I was away at university, I received a letter. It was from my Aunt Mona, a woman I hadn’t seen since I was a young child.
I remember only three things from our last face-to-face encounter:
* It was Thanksgiving so all of the family had gathered together at my grandmother’s house in suburban Chicago.
* I lost not one but two baby teeth while biting down on a carrot.
* Aunt Mona held me in her arms and comforted me while my mouth bled. Then we sat on the couch and read together.
It was the late ’70s-early ’80s. She and my uncle lived in Kansas with my two younger cousins. Although they had traveled to Illinois for the holiday, they returned to their home state, divorced soon after and I never had the opportunity to see her in person again.
Fast forward to college, the early ’90s, and the arrival of that letter. It was handwritten in blue ink on lined notebook paper. She reintroduced herself and asked if I remembered her. She said she’d once had an aunt who became a special friend and she wanted to be mine. Although I hadn’t seen her in many years, her kindness had made an impression.
From that point on, she and I began exchanging letters and gifts, stories and friendship. I told her about how I wanted to write full-time and live in New York City. I described falling in love with my husband and sent postcards from our travels overseas. She wrote about the books she read and the animals she cared for. She called me her “first niece” and said she always knew I would become a writer. She also told me about the dreams she had for her daughters’ future and how she hoped they would find happiness.
Aunt Mona died last night. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.
She’d been ill for a while and living in a nursing home. Apparently she started having trouble breathing yesterday and was put on oxygen. Then she developed a fever and her lungs filled with fluid. I suspect COVID-19 but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Her body just gave out.
And just like that, the world is a little less sweet.
I keep a list of Christmas presents that I update all year long, adding new ideas next to the names of dear friends and family. By sheer coincidence, I had the file open because I needed to buy a present for a friend’s upcoming birthday.
After my cousin told me the news about her mother’s death, I returned to the list. There were still six gift ideas written under Aunt Mona’s name. I’m so sorry I’ll never have the opportunity to send them.
