My aunt died last night. Other people, the ones who knew her well, will have more to say and I'll shut up and listen. What I knew is I loved her house and she had the best taste in the family. Unerringly perfect taste. When we were young, her kids talked to her as if she was stupid. When I tried to talk to my mom like that it didn't work.
She wasn't stupid, not by a long shot. After the kids grew up, she went back to law school, became a public defender and was a hot ticket. And then, after she retired, she went to work with kids. Page four of this link has a short interview with her. See? This is a death that diminishes the world.
My life isn't affected much, so no need to express sympathy. Too bad I'll never see her house or clothes again or hear her express her blunt opinions which were sometimes odd, but often held great zingers.
Mostly when I think about her, I think of her house, which shows up in a bunch of my dreams. Most of those dreams are me, sitting with her on the porch facing the ocean, explaining why this time it's not really a dream and I'm really there with her. Usually in the dream, she's fairly grouchy about me being there. Right. If I apparently mourn the house more than the woman, I don't require a pat on the shoulder.
This is the last of my past, drifting away, into the ocean vanishing into an impossible-to-reach horizon. I am just another one of the 99 percent waving from the shore.