family

My aunt Carole was 14 when I was born and 12 when my brother was born. She was our usual babysitter and in 1969, at the ripe-old age of 16, she married a man returning from Viet Nam. His name was Gene. They were probably the closest family we had growing up and at numerous times in my early years, I was sent off to live with her, either alone or with my brother. When I was six, my cousin Greg was born and has been like a brother to me for his whole life. Darin, Greg and I played together and have fond memories of many a Christmas spent in some apartment or other in Los Angeles, waiting out the arrival of Santa. My aunt once hid a tape recorder under our bed on Christmas Eve, only to have the three of us find it and decide to put on a performance of Christmas Carols and stories into the microphone.

As I grew up, I resented the influence of my Mom's family. They were all liars and criminals, unable to know the truth, much less tell it. I grew up visiting them in prison on the weekends and hearing of their conversion to Christianity everytime they would be locked up. After I became a Christian, this offended me even more than before. Because after their release they would return to their ways, their grift, their scam. I never knew the truth of my family because it was transient. Truth floated about and only solidified if it was needed to make a story stick. But this was not truth, it was just another self-serving "reality" to make them feel better about the things they did.

A few months ago, my aunt sent me a letter heavy-laden with guilt about how we (this time the we was my brother, one of my uncles and myself...whoever had money) needed to help pay for my grandmother's expenses because Carole was dying and could not take care of Granny anymore. My aunt has 'suffered' from any malady which would contribute to her happiness and pocket for the better part of 25 years. She, being an intelligent woman, would study all sorts of medical books and claim she had been 'diagnosed' with whatever the new disease was. It was always a disease which not much was known about. As with all the other family stories, it was the unverifiable scam. It sounds almost reasonable, almost true, almost real. But it never was true. So, I joked about the letter she sent me and said it started "I am the former president of Nigeria," a reference to the well-known scam emails which the average american has received 2.3 times in the last 5 years. I was so angry with her for trying to scam me again that I refused to reply, to even acknowledge that I had received it.

I got a call late last night. Greg, having not heard from his Mom in three days, kicked in the door of her house and found her face down on the floor. She probably died of a heart-attack. She was fat, she was a heavy-smoker and she did not take care of herself. I don't know, maybe this time she really was sick. It doesn't matter, she is gone.

I am left with a feeling of sadness, but not regret. I feel sad for my Mom, who although just like her sister, is still my Mom and I love her. I feel sad for my cousin, she was all he had. But, the one thing I seem to be lacking is any feeling of grief. I feel like a granite-hearted grinch for with the passing of a woman who had a significant hand in raising me, I can not bring myself to be sad at her parting. I do not regret not talking to her, not responding to her email, not being more a part of her life. My aunt was a taker, but like most people she was not all bad. There was a spark in her which helped to keep family members in contact, everyone was in contact in one way or another with Carole up to the day of her death. She would open her home to anyone who asked and had a very short memory of wrongs suffered. I always attributed this to a monumental self-involvement which would not allow bad memories to surface. But, maybe she was naturally forgiving. I don't know, I never will. Say a prayer tonight for my Mom and Greg, they have nothing to rest their souls on in this time of grief and I fear for their psyche.

Good night, Aunt Carole. Thanks for watching me as a kid, for taking me in as a teen and for forgetting wrongs suffered. I promise to tell your story for the rest of my life, how could I not?