Only a heartbeat ago, I was the younger generation,
shielded from inevitability by parents and grandparents. They were
loving people who tolerated, even ignored my mistakes, and indulged my
reluctance to grow up. I wished time away with reckless abandon. There
would always be more. As the years passed, my grandparents, and then my
parents died. Just like back in school, under the unforgiving eye of a
sadistic gym teacher, I had to move up in the line and finally take my
turn whether I wanted to or not. I was now the older generation. This
time, however, I would not be allowed to return to the back of the line.
I stared into the mirror and concluded that time had
finally found a way to be acknowledged. The face that used to stare back
at me was smooth and unlined -- not a pretty face, I knew that, but a
young face. The reflection I saw now couldn't possibly be mine. Folds of
skin drooped over my eyes. Lines and creases, etched like scars,
crisscrossed my cheeks. I touched one of the lines gently. My fingers
pulled the skin up and back. The lines almost disappeared, but when I
released the skin they returned, more enduring and hideous than before.
When did it happen, I wondered? When did the girl in the graduation
photo on my dresser become a stranger? I experienced the same sense of
betrayal I felt after childbirth years ago.
Why hadn't anyone told me how much it would hurt? The physical pain of
labor had been replaced with the emotional anguish of
childbirth.
Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Jack remained as buffers to
my mortality after the loss of my parents, and I clung to their presence
in my life. When Charlotte became ill suddenly, I panicked. She would
get better, I reasoned in a moment of calm. I refused to acknowledge
that she might be leaving me.
One afternoon, I dreamed I was in her hospital room.
"Is that who I think it is?" she said, and her eyes told me
that it meant the world to her that I was there.
My dream came as no surprise. I thought of her
constantly while awake, so why shouldn't she be in my dreams, too? I
wondered for a moment if the dream meant that she knew how much I wanted
to be with her. If I stretched my imagination far enough, if I went back
to a time when I believed anything was possible, maybe I could believe I
was really there.
Four thousand miles and more money than I possessed
prevented my dream from becoming a reality. I wanted to phone her on
Sunday at five o'clock, just like I did every week. We'd laugh because
my card arrived before her birthday for the first time in years. When my
cousin Marion told me Aunt Charlotte was dying - "that it's only a
matter of time, now" -- I knew that there would be no more phone
calls, no more conversations that left me smiling and secure.
During my wait for that final call from Marion, I
tortured myself with remembrance, losing myself in a slideshow of
images. Outside my window everything looked frigid and bleak. Winter had
put the world to sleep, creating a fitting landscape for my feelings. No
brilliant sunshine to mock me. No perfect, cloudless sky to discount my
sorrow.
I
had always wanted Charlotte and Jack to see our farm. So many times, I'd
pictured us driving over the hill - the big one just before you get to
our place. I would watch their faces carefully as they saw the dignified
brick house, surrounded by acres of peanuts, soybeans and cotton, for
the first time.
They'd see the red outbuildings, the post-and-rail
fences, and the rooster stealing cat food from the bowl on the back
porch. Charlotte would say, "It's really lovely, dear." They'd
be so happy for me. As a child, I wished that I could live on a farm
when I grew up. Maybe wishes did come true. I wished Charlotte wouldn't
leave me now. I wished for years and years more to tell her how much she
meant to me.
We'd marvel over the glossy green magnolia tree in the
front yard and the twisted, ancient sycamore in the back. I'd show them
where the floodwaters stopped their frightening crawl up our driveway
after the hurricane. We'd shake our heads and smile because with time,
some things become worthy of amusement and wonder. Losing her would
never be anything but painful.
I'm sure Aunt Charlotte knew I loved her. I told her
countless times. The abiding love of a small child grew to include deep
respect and admiration. With the clarity that comes sometimes only with
loss, I now wonder if she knew how much she meant to me and how much I
learned from her. She taught me to believe in myself. She taught me that
there's no sin in making mistakes, and she taught me that everyone
deserves another chance.
Every summer and holiday, when I stayed with them on
their farm in southern Alberta, Canada, I became their little girl. I
watched Aunt Charlotte with Uncle Jack, and I learned about love and
devotion. I watched her work endless hours for endless days, and I
learned about commitment. I watched her with friends and family, and I
learned about loyalty. When hail destroyed an ocean of golden wheat -
the entire crop -- on a blistering August afternoon, she held me tight
and told me everything was going to be okay. That's when I learned about
faith and perseverance.
When it was time to leave the farm and return to my
family in the city, I always cried. Our time together never lasted long
enough. I was never very good at saying good-bye. I'm still not.
I found out later that she died at the same time I
slept and dreamed -- at the moment I touched her cheek and whispered,
"It's me, Auntie. I'm here."
Magazine