Auntie Lil
I love you with a ferocity that borders on the ridiculous. I remember the moment I first saw you, when you went from being a theoretical human being to an incredibly beautiful and frighteningly real human being. I remember being startled by the realness of you. I remember the way that I knew that my heart was changed for ever.
I have a mental photograph album of your first few years. I remember waking with you, rocking you, feeding you, changing your diapers. I remember when you began to talk and could not pronounce “st” Instead you substituted merely “t”. You came to me once after eating some candy saying, “Aunt Lil, I’m all ticky!”
“You are! You are indeed all ticky! Let’s clean you up.”
I remember your wise eyes when at the age of three you sat down in the habitual seat of my boyfriend and said, “This is John’s chair.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Sober as a judge, you looked at me and nodded, “He’s a good man.”
It was all I could do to keep from falling over laughing, but you were so earnest, so incredibly sincere that I felt I must reflect your seriousness of your declaration. “Yes. Yes he is. He is a very good man.”
That same year, I gave you one of those large plastic blow up bunnies for Easter. It was taller than you were, and you were terrified of it. After going through your Easter Basket and gathering up your goodies, you began to walk into the kitchen. You brushed against the inflatable rabbit, and terrified, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bunny.” Something the entire family now says when someone tries to intimidate us.
You used to sing during the blessing of every meal. I suspect God was delighted.
Your parents marriage didn’t last much past your 3rd month. You were surrounded by bickering, angry, drug abusing adults, but you thrived as a young, young child.. You were happy. Unbelievably joyous. You taught me about the resilience of the human spirit.
You loved the color red and hearts. We had covered your room with hearts. Quilts made with heart patterned fabric. A wind chime made of red hearts. A baby mobile made of hearts. Hearts painted onto your red furniture.
We would sit for hours and just watch you. Watch you discover your tongue and spend the day sticking it in and out of your mouth. Watching you discover that you could put your hands together. Mastering rolling over, then sitting up, then one day – Miraculously! – walking.
Your speech taught us all the quirks of our own Texas accents. When you wished for more of something, you’d ask for a “nudrine” (another one). When we would carry you up the stairs, you’d say “We’re going uppy dairs.”
Eventually I moved away, and my contact with you grew less frequent. I missed the intimacy of witnessing your day to day achievements. I delighted in finding gifts for you. I adored the pictures you would draw for me. I cherished our funny phone calls.
For a while, after I left college and returned to my parent’s home, you came to live with us while your mother was battling her substance abuse issues. You were so tiny, so vulnerable, ad so incredibly brave. One night during National Fire Safety Week, I decided it would be a good idea to teach you about fire and what to do if one happened. I succeeded only in terrifying you. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such remorse.
One night you were supposed to bathe, and when I came in to check on you, you declared you were all clean. “Did you use soap?” I asked. You nodded. “All over?” You nodded again. I glanced at the completely dry bar of soap next to you and thought, ‘I don’t want to do this. I want to let her get away with it.’ But of course, I couldn’t let you. I had to demand honesty of you. So I pointed out the dry soap, and you began to cry. I cried later. I hated to correct you. I thought everything you did was swell. You were incapable of doing anything short of delighting me.
You’re mother’s unsettled life kept you from attending the same school two years in a row until you were in high school. You learned to be incredibly independent, and to be able to adjust to anything.
On the morning after your father committed suicide, I tried to catch your mother on the phone. She had already left for work. I went to your mom’s office to wait for her. It wasn’t until I came into the office that I was aware of my appearance. In my grief I had failed to even comb my hair. I had just grabbed clothes, put them on and went out to seek my sister. Finally, she arrived at the office. I took her back into the conference room to tell her. It took a long time for her to grasp the information. I kept having to answer the same questions again and again. Finally, I led her out of the office, and drove her home. There, we began the dreadful task of waiting for you to come home to school and telling you. I would have given anything to spare you that pain. I would have gladly died to spare you that. I will be able to see your face in those moments for the rest of my life. You were so hurt, so sad, and yet, so incredibly brave. Braver than any 9 year old had any business being.
The years went by, and I moved away again. I missed a lot of your life then. You made perfect grades, were the paragon of the obedient child, and I worried for you. Oh! How I worried for you. I worried that you didn’t know that it was okay for you to mess up. That you didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.
When you were in high school and began to rebel, I secretly cheered for you. I had been afraid that one of those perfect days you were going to come home to your perfectly neat room with your perfect report cards on your perfect bulletin board and put a perfect bullet through your perfect head. When you began to rebel – even to shoplift – I silently cheered.
You were the maid of honor at my wedding. You were so beautiful that I spent a great deal of effort at the parties surrounding the wedding to keep my husband’s friends from trying to pick you up. I threatened one of them, a heroine addict who was 32 years old. “She’s 17. Touch her and I will kill you.”
A few years ago, I attended your college graduation. I don’t know what I expected, but I know I didn’t expect what happened. The moment I saw you, and you waived up to us, I burst into tears. I was so proud of you! I was watching your life change forever. I was watching the fruition of the wonderful person you were.
Since this is a super secret completely anonymous blog, I can confess to something I can’t say in very many places. I never bonded with your younger sister in the way I did with you. I love her, but not in the wild, unbridled way I love you. Perhaps because you were so much like me as a child, serious, quiet, and avoiding attention with a determined, focused effort. You mastered the art of blending into the wallpaper.
This year for Christmas, I gave you a china box. Inside the box I had placed all my best memories of you, all my boundless faith in you, all my hopes and dreams for you, and all my love, my boundless, boundless love. I adore you. I think you are the cats damned pajamas.
I would risk everything for you in a heart beat. For you are the center and purest part of my heart. You are the love I never dreamed I could feel.
I have a mental photograph album of your first few years. I remember waking with you, rocking you, feeding you, changing your diapers. I remember when you began to talk and could not pronounce “st” Instead you substituted merely “t”. You came to me once after eating some candy saying, “Aunt Lil, I’m all ticky!”
“You are! You are indeed all ticky! Let’s clean you up.”
I remember your wise eyes when at the age of three you sat down in the habitual seat of my boyfriend and said, “This is John’s chair.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Sober as a judge, you looked at me and nodded, “He’s a good man.”
It was all I could do to keep from falling over laughing, but you were so earnest, so incredibly sincere that I felt I must reflect your seriousness of your declaration. “Yes. Yes he is. He is a very good man.”
That same year, I gave you one of those large plastic blow up bunnies for Easter. It was taller than you were, and you were terrified of it. After going through your Easter Basket and gathering up your goodies, you began to walk into the kitchen. You brushed against the inflatable rabbit, and terrified, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bunny.” Something the entire family now says when someone tries to intimidate us.
You used to sing during the blessing of every meal. I suspect God was delighted.
Your parents marriage didn’t last much past your 3rd month. You were surrounded by bickering, angry, drug abusing adults, but you thrived as a young, young child.. You were happy. Unbelievably joyous. You taught me about the resilience of the human spirit.
You loved the color red and hearts. We had covered your room with hearts. Quilts made with heart patterned fabric. A wind chime made of red hearts. A baby mobile made of hearts. Hearts painted onto your red furniture.
We would sit for hours and just watch you. Watch you discover your tongue and spend the day sticking it in and out of your mouth. Watching you discover that you could put your hands together. Mastering rolling over, then sitting up, then one day – Miraculously! – walking.
Your speech taught us all the quirks of our own Texas accents. When you wished for more of something, you’d ask for a “nudrine” (another one). When we would carry you up the stairs, you’d say “We’re going uppy dairs.”
Eventually I moved away, and my contact with you grew less frequent. I missed the intimacy of witnessing your day to day achievements. I delighted in finding gifts for you. I adored the pictures you would draw for me. I cherished our funny phone calls.
For a while, after I left college and returned to my parent’s home, you came to live with us while your mother was battling her substance abuse issues. You were so tiny, so vulnerable, ad so incredibly brave. One night during National Fire Safety Week, I decided it would be a good idea to teach you about fire and what to do if one happened. I succeeded only in terrifying you. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such remorse.
One night you were supposed to bathe, and when I came in to check on you, you declared you were all clean. “Did you use soap?” I asked. You nodded. “All over?” You nodded again. I glanced at the completely dry bar of soap next to you and thought, ‘I don’t want to do this. I want to let her get away with it.’ But of course, I couldn’t let you. I had to demand honesty of you. So I pointed out the dry soap, and you began to cry. I cried later. I hated to correct you. I thought everything you did was swell. You were incapable of doing anything short of delighting me.
You’re mother’s unsettled life kept you from attending the same school two years in a row until you were in high school. You learned to be incredibly independent, and to be able to adjust to anything.
On the morning after your father committed suicide, I tried to catch your mother on the phone. She had already left for work. I went to your mom’s office to wait for her. It wasn’t until I came into the office that I was aware of my appearance. In my grief I had failed to even comb my hair. I had just grabbed clothes, put them on and went out to seek my sister. Finally, she arrived at the office. I took her back into the conference room to tell her. It took a long time for her to grasp the information. I kept having to answer the same questions again and again. Finally, I led her out of the office, and drove her home. There, we began the dreadful task of waiting for you to come home to school and telling you. I would have given anything to spare you that pain. I would have gladly died to spare you that. I will be able to see your face in those moments for the rest of my life. You were so hurt, so sad, and yet, so incredibly brave. Braver than any 9 year old had any business being.
The years went by, and I moved away again. I missed a lot of your life then. You made perfect grades, were the paragon of the obedient child, and I worried for you. Oh! How I worried for you. I worried that you didn’t know that it was okay for you to mess up. That you didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.
When you were in high school and began to rebel, I secretly cheered for you. I had been afraid that one of those perfect days you were going to come home to your perfectly neat room with your perfect report cards on your perfect bulletin board and put a perfect bullet through your perfect head. When you began to rebel – even to shoplift – I silently cheered.
You were the maid of honor at my wedding. You were so beautiful that I spent a great deal of effort at the parties surrounding the wedding to keep my husband’s friends from trying to pick you up. I threatened one of them, a heroine addict who was 32 years old. “She’s 17. Touch her and I will kill you.”
A few years ago, I attended your college graduation. I don’t know what I expected, but I know I didn’t expect what happened. The moment I saw you, and you waived up to us, I burst into tears. I was so proud of you! I was watching your life change forever. I was watching the fruition of the wonderful person you were.
Since this is a super secret completely anonymous blog, I can confess to something I can’t say in very many places. I never bonded with your younger sister in the way I did with you. I love her, but not in the wild, unbridled way I love you. Perhaps because you were so much like me as a child, serious, quiet, and avoiding attention with a determined, focused effort. You mastered the art of blending into the wallpaper.
This year for Christmas, I gave you a china box. Inside the box I had placed all my best memories of you, all my boundless faith in you, all my hopes and dreams for you, and all my love, my boundless, boundless love. I adore you. I think you are the cats damned pajamas.
I would risk everything for you in a heart beat. For you are the center and purest part of my heart. You are the love I never dreamed I could feel.
posted by Cala Lily at Saturday, December 30, 2006
9 comments
