I remember my Aunt Jeanie shortly before she died, sitting on the edge of her bed, telling me a story about when she was young. Her family would have pasta with butter and cheese for dinner, and she remembered with happiness the pleasantness of happening upon a bite that had both butter and cheese. Her accent sounded strangely European after her stroke, with a slight lisp on some of her words. I enjoyed listening to her speak, and this was a good memory for her; I could see her vividly in my mind's eye, young and hungry and savoring that pasta. There is a lump in my own throat as I remember her.
One of my youngest aunts, and both of us hot tempered and immature, I remember several difficult encounters throughout the years. Once when I was seventeen she interjected one too many critical comments into an argument I was having with my mother, and I quickly swore at her, and she, just as quickly, threw a piece of cake at my head. We both deserved what we got, and I wish I could say we both matured and never fought again, but that wouldn't be true. I still swear when provoked and she was still throwing things on her deathbed. How I loved her! How I long to see her again. How happy I am that she is no longer sitting on the edge of that bed, thinking with sadness or longing over her life and weighing the years and always coming up short. Her God took her home to be with Him, to be his Beloved.. and I can ask no more than that for myself. Neither of us worthy, but both of us Chosen.. and we will be together, forever, in the new light of the Dawn.
Jeanie, I miss you.
