Thursday, October 5, 2023
Before she was a grandmother, aunt, mother, wife, teacher, she was my mom’s best friend…
Auntie Ann - She was the first friend my mom ever had, the first person my mom was ever in contention with, she was my mom’s confidant, she was my mom’s first love.
I think back years before and my mom’s calling of her name “oh, Anne” followed by my aunt’s reply back, “oh Caroline, don’t you Anne me.”Their hair cuts, nail appointments, and eyebrows schedules cloned each other. And though the last years separated them more in miles, space, and time brought forth by Alzheimer's - I know that their dreams remained intact even when real-time conversations would say otherwise.
With me, their intertwined stories are as present as ever. From the mop story that grandma told me when she was trying to teach Aunt Ann about avoiding desperation to fit in to the horrors of trying to get my mom to drive so that grandpa would let Aunt Ann learn to drive. And then there was a love - a love of her grandchildren - lordy, she loves the twins -
Through the forget-me-nots, I remember for all us.
Auntie Ann, she loved me- every bit of me, even the parts that would provoke a stare from atop of her glasses, or force her to spit coffee, or make her bang her hands on the table and zip her lips, saying “well honey, if your uncle Tommy were here he would tell me ‘Anne, keep your mouth shut’." Her excitement when we would see each other would uplift me even on a heavy day. Her hugs were real, without hesitation, without awkwardness. She loved me and I remember…
Her hate of cold pool water,
Her love of the Carolinas,
Her sarcasm, her laughter, her anger, her grudges, her signature, her gossip, her nose.
I remember.
Her love of her dogs,
Her talent for decor,
Her dedication to Uncle Tommy and to never allowing her food to touch once plates were served.
I remember her.
Christmas trees (both of them), ceramics, and wreathes,
Card games, coffee talks, and swim meets,
Christmas breakfast, bees at Easter, and The Polar Express,
I remember the dancing.
The oldies, the floor, and her in the arms of my uncle as the glided around. Every muscle remembers those steps when one of those songs plays, in the kitchen, at work, in the car, we remember.
Her convertibles! Oh her convertibles- my drivers test was taken in hers. And the day before she passed away, I passed a Sebring, thought of her and smiled. I partly smiled because of how bad her driving was but I mostly smiled because I remember her smell, her wrinkles, and her stroking of my hair.
So you travel well, Aunt Ann. And don’t you worry. For I will remember for as long as I can.
-Love Always, Christine
