Movements at once curved and
pointed, the lilt of promise
in the upswing of a sentence; twirl
into cloud of fragrance sharp with
earth, a sensory insouciance,
densely inviting; swirls
of gauzy possibility,
a sprinkling of
mirrors large enough
only to reflect the
curious dot of a freckle, a
soft limpid light.
Do certain flavors trigger painful memories for you?
What does it feel like to own your preferences and choices?
How do you respond when something you want isn’t available to you?
Homonym day. This word landed someplace I’ve just started to acknowledge. I’m grieving. And, hoping, somehow, maybe it’s not too late.
My aunt (my father’s half-sister, a teen when I was born) always inspired something akin to hero worship in me. Russian-Italian, waterfalls of shiny black hair, gorgeous skin, abundant laugh, abundant charisma, abundant energy, abundant everything. A saucy, savvy hippie witch dressed in black who loves elaborate pranks, who married her college professor, raised four stepchildren and three sons they had together, busted her ever-loving ass for decades, took the family restaurant to iconic heights, left her marriage to save herself, survived unimaginable loss (except that I can imagine, I came too close to the same), navigated the upheaval, found her forever person. Built what’s starting to look like an empire. Built a LIFE, surrounded by family and friends, stellar human beings who work hard and play well and love endlessly. Became a grandma who does the same things with her granddaughter that formed some of my safest, most sacred childhood memories. She is joie de vivre and an absolute badass.
She’s been a kindred spirit since I was born. And despite her then-close relationship with my mother (or maybe because of it), I wasn’t allowed to love her.
Everything in me that was similar to her, every preference that might’ve been inspired by her taste or simply something I experienced through her… it was always an accusation, threaded with self-righteous scolding: “You’re just like your aunt.” I never dared express how much I wanted that to be true.
Because it wasn’t that being like her was bad. The problem was that I wanted to in the first place. The problem was that I loved her, that I felt valuable with her. That I liked myself when I was with her.
The message was clear: I was disloyal, a disappointment to my mother. My aunt wasn’t the one I was supposed to emulate.
And I learned way too late, from another woman I’m not supposed to love (my aunt's high school best friend, who’s now my stepmother, and I do love her, very much), that my aunt could’ve been the one to help put a stop to it. She was subjected to at least some of the same behavior from the grandfather, who’d been part of her life since her own childhood. She played her role too, played along, protected herself. She had to.
And yet he was *her* friend, the one person who saw, who told me I didn’t have to put up with it. He’d have helped me; we’d have gone straight to her, together. If only I’d believed anyone could help. If I’d believe there was anything wrong in the first place, other than with me.
And I watch her life through social media and other people's stories, as my own life parallels hers in ways I could never have imagined, regretting each year that passes, with visits being nearly impossible, wishing I’d had more time with her, hoping maybe I still can, hoping there’s still time for me to become these things that were latent in me, that I love about her.
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