“Steve, I have some news” Beck said as I poked my head in the living room to her on the Beck couch to say “Hi” after what had been a frustrating but finally muddled through Friday.
“Aunt Anne passed away”
I was going to joke about something totally silly in my poking corners of living rooms with sisters on couches and then …
… pause … “Oh no … no” and I flashed to the late 90’s almost 00’s and felt guilty, immediately, as I hadn’t talked to Aunt Anne in too long.
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There were thank you cards that I would never send for wedding gifts I never kept (though there were a couple I would like to have, that fully loaded tool box filled with shit I would never need or know how to use for one) and feel guilty of for the longest of time and there was paperwork eventually that said the magic had passed well before its time or thank you card expectations suddenly no longer a thing, plus divorce numbers in graphs and charts and over multiple demographics helped me explain, painfully, fast endings and also just being lazy and hurt.
“Hey what time is it?”
“It’s now and you still haven’t sent those thank you cards and, oh, try again sometime, maybe, on this whole marriage thing if you can or wish?” Another thought entirely there, and a nonstarter.
And then there was Aunt Anne.
I needed a place, a spot, a wherever that wasn’t this whatever now, I needed, really, to just run away.
Cue Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and Florida sun and unintended but welcome beaches and Mouse dreams. Yes, I went to the beach and Yes, I worked for the Mouse, even wore tights and big ass floppy shoes and baggy shorts and plastic heads on the weekends.
I know, kinky huh? Just minus the soft light and candles and knotted rope.
She offered me a room, in a welcome home when I was at a loss as to what to do after my unexpected sideways step replete with those Thank You cards I never sent that I kept in a box on a new nightstand as a reminder of my lacking’s but also of my refusals (that was my justification anyway).
But Aunt Anne and Uncle Don and that huge living room where I would sit, cross-legged watching TV with them and commenting together on new shared favorite shows as a part of the family still sits cross-legged with me, along with remembrances of Benny the Cat who catted along with me to this new stead and who Aunt Anne, to her sure consternation, and unneeded pressure, kept an extra eye for “Hey that’s Stephen’s cat, keep an extra eye or i’ll never sleep and then be forced to hurt you … “
My cats have always had that effect.
We’re all, obviously, older now, shit catches up eventually as it will, as it does as it must but there are Aunt Anne’s and Uncle Don’s along the way who give you place, comfort, friendship, if you are lucky enough, a place to lay your head and regroup and even go to the beach or wear big ass plastic heads on the weekends (no, not in a kinky way … freakin’ wierdo’s) and breathe for just a moment.
Lubs Aunt Anne.
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