Lent #3

I sat on the couch in that Sun City ranch style and watched the coroners wheel the inflated body to the municipal hearse on the curb. My aunt had just passed away, a victim of inoperable ovarian cancer that had infected every part of her body until her life was snuffed.  She spent her last days in her retirement home in a near coma. After I was made to say my final good-byes, I sat on the davenport in the insipidly appointed living room and waited until the declaration of death was made. Across the room my uncle moaned and began to weep. A deep sorrow filled his lips. His quivering breath was audible from behind his hands that covered his face.

At first, I could not muster tears. In my 9-year-old mind I could only think about the meanness of my Aunt Irene and a large part of me was relieved that she was gone. But when I watched my uncle’s deep grief erupt, in a way I had never seen, I felt myself trembling with sadness and the crying came. This period of emoting only to be countered a short time later in the kitchen by my mother, “Well the old beast is dead.” Then, looking at me, “Why are you crying? You didn’t like her. She was rotten to you!” My response was a simple, “I’m sad for Uncle Loyd.” To this my mother stated, “Oh hell, he will get over it. People die and people get over it!”

Aunt Irene was my father’s sister and I truly don’t remember a time when I didn’t know her. She and her husband Loyd would come to Phoenix every winter from Minnesota and spend several months in our house. My parents would give up their bedroom in hopes of keeping them isolated. Instead, when my folks would leave at 4:30 to get to their gig, my aunt and uncle would emerge from the back room and take a place on the sofa in front of the main television in our home. “Duke’s of Hazzard”? No way! Because the, “Donny and Marie Show” was on. My aunt would chastise me, “Watch this, Danielle, you might learn something!”

I would wait for her to drift off to sleep in her supine position in the Lazy Boy with her head dropped forward. It was then I would sneak past her to smuggle a pad of paper and pen from the desk so I could doodle. I eased the drawer out.  And smack! Her unexpected hand swept around my small body and snatched the writing tools out of my hands. Her angry glare and questioning of what I thought I was doing made me cower and slink away. She was satisfied when I apologized through tears.

At one point, Irene decided to take it upon herself to detangle my unkempt hair.  My mother was frequently too depressed to acknowledge my grooming or lack there of. So, my aunt determined she would handle things. Upon multiple unsuccessful comb throughs, Irene was sure there was only one way to fix the ball of knots that lay atop my neglected head. Scissors! In a furor, she wielded her body out of her seat and went for the shears. I shrieked and ran. Outside and around the pool she chased me, willing her massive self to inch closer to me so that she could pin me down and crop my matted hair. My screams got my mother’s attention and she put an end to the outlandish pursuit. My aunt was sent away to watch reruns of the, “I Love Lucy Show” in the back bedroom. My mother began to hack away at my hair while sobbing and damning my aunt’s as well as her own existence. The mangy cut that remained angered my father and caused me to wear a hat for months after the incident.

My Aunt Irene had no children and from what I remember she had no friends. She did however have her husband; a husband who loved her deeply. He grieved her death deeply. And no matter how I felt about her or how badly she treated me, she was still a human who was worthy of being mourned. Perhaps my mother was right; people die and others get over it. However, when I think about my aunt I don’t know if my uncle ever truly, “got over it.” I believe that his scar remained until his last breath.