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americasuiteheartsMy Great-Aunt Jean died over two years ago. It was birthday, a younger me playing around with friends I don’t talk to anymore, when my mom found out Jean was put in the hospital.
I never saw her in the hospital. I only sat in stiff chairs, my mind looping every single worst possible outcome, while the grown up said their goodbyes. I never said goodbye because Jean was dying in a hospital bed as a husk of the woman I barely even knew.
The funeral was in a church, a nice one Jean used to go to. The day feels fuzzy now, but I can clearly remember how it ended. We all stood outside with a bag of my Aunt Jean’s ashes, sprinkling the powder back into the ground. Isn’t it funny how a whole fucking person fits into a plastic bag? Is that all one person is worth?
I cried my eyes out, face silently buried in my mother’s chest. There wasn’t enough people crying. An entire lifetime was down the drain and people weren’t crying. I never even knew Jean too well. She lives in my mind as pictures of her passed out on the couch during thanksgiving and the chocolate coconut cake I helped bake for her birthday.
Jean was an alcoholic. I heard she quit for a while, got sober. She wasn’t anymore by the time I got to knew her. She rotted away in her own house. She lived her last months as a hoarder surrounded by Amazon boxes and dirty wine glasses. I guess her liver couldn’t take it and she needed to be completely clean for at least a few months to get surgery. She didn’t stop drinking. She never got the surgery.
I remember when we had to clean out her house. We found extra toothbrushes in the guest bathroom, waiting one of us to hang out with Jean and spend the night. None of us ever did. Those toothbrushes never saw the light of day, fated to sit at the bottom of some landfill.
I never knew Jean well and now I never will.
As I write this today, Jean is still apart of my life. I thumb over the dainty necklace I’ve worn everyday for the past two years. There’s a small bottle of hairspray that still sits on my counter, almost empty and most definitely expired from whenever Jean bought it.
Dear Aunt Jean,
I never believed in God, but you did. I hope you’re happy in the heaven that you that you strived to get to while you were on earth. My grandpa talks about you sometimes, just small talk about who you used to be. Even if the memories of you start to blur at the edges, you will always be apart of me. Apart of everyone you’ve ever known.
-r
I never saw her in the hospital. I only sat in stiff chairs, my mind looping every single worst possible outcome, while the grown up said their goodbyes. I never said goodbye because Jean was dying in a hospital bed as a husk of the woman I barely even knew.
The funeral was in a church, a nice one Jean used to go to. The day feels fuzzy now, but I can clearly remember how it ended. We all stood outside with a bag of my Aunt Jean’s ashes, sprinkling the powder back into the ground. Isn’t it funny how a whole fucking person fits into a plastic bag? Is that all one person is worth?
I cried my eyes out, face silently buried in my mother’s chest. There wasn’t enough people crying. An entire lifetime was down the drain and people weren’t crying. I never even knew Jean too well. She lives in my mind as pictures of her passed out on the couch during thanksgiving and the chocolate coconut cake I helped bake for her birthday.
Jean was an alcoholic. I heard she quit for a while, got sober. She wasn’t anymore by the time I got to knew her. She rotted away in her own house. She lived her last months as a hoarder surrounded by Amazon boxes and dirty wine glasses. I guess her liver couldn’t take it and she needed to be completely clean for at least a few months to get surgery. She didn’t stop drinking. She never got the surgery.
I remember when we had to clean out her house. We found extra toothbrushes in the guest bathroom, waiting one of us to hang out with Jean and spend the night. None of us ever did. Those toothbrushes never saw the light of day, fated to sit at the bottom of some landfill.
I never knew Jean well and now I never will.
As I write this today, Jean is still apart of my life. I thumb over the dainty necklace I’ve worn everyday for the past two years. There’s a small bottle of hairspray that still sits on my counter, almost empty and most definitely expired from whenever Jean bought it.
Dear Aunt Jean,
I never believed in God, but you did. I hope you’re happy in the heaven that you that you strived to get to while you were on earth. My grandpa talks about you sometimes, just small talk about who you used to be. Even if the memories of you start to blur at the edges, you will always be apart of me. Apart of everyone you’ve ever known.
-r
