This past weekend, I buried my aunt—my mom’s eldest sister. The solemn occasion was mostly silent. After five years battling Alzheimer’s and then cancer, most family members seemed content that her suffering was over.
I’m not one to get emotional at funerals. Matter of fact, my mother was given strict instructions days in advance to curb her ‘theatrics’—in both my vehicle and the church. She had free rein at the gravesite, but I don’t tolerate the dramatic wailings of closure I grew up around. I’ll give my mom her props, though. She held it together for most of the two-hour service.
But I digress…
Because I’d been physically, mentally, and emotionally detached from this woman for nearly a decade, the funeral felt clinical. I watched, partially in awe, at the genuine hurt others felt about her departure.
A younger, usually bubbly aunt who—for once—barely kept it together as she eulogised her big sis.
A soloist who did the best he could with a rendition of Boyz II Men’s Mama. Tears didn’t allow him to finish, but the sentiment was there.
But that’s life. Sometimes things are just left unfinished.
It was evident—while I didn’t like her, others did. And so, quietly, I mourned their loss. Their pain. After all, life wasn’t all bad with her around. Her sons. Their children. Her siblings. Their love for her was real. And in that moment, I was able to honour that, even if I couldn’t fully feel it for myself.
When it was all said and done, I went home and tried to put the past behind me.
Just for one afternoon, I allowed myself to accept that my side isn’t the only side of her complex coin. I made a choice: to remember the side I had long buried—the loving side. The one that, for all intents and purposes, should’ve drowned out the parts that stung me like venom most of my life.
That determination prompted me to go for a drive.
I tried to remember her in the driver’s seat when I was younger. I tried to remember going to Borden’s for those small individual ice cream cups—her and my mom up front, me tagging along. TCBY made a good enough substitute that day: golden vanilla soft serve at the bottom to round out the chocolate mousse on top.
And what’s an evening drive without music? YouTube, for once, was totally in sync with my mood and delivered a soft rock mix for the ages—from Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street to Toto’s Georgy Porgy to an apt Kenny Loggins’ This Is It.
I spent an hour and a half driving the most beautiful coast God ever designed, eating ice cream, remembering my aunt, and picturing her smiling beside me.
Now, an ethereal passenger instead.
Author’s Note
Aunt Beres was a financial genius. Even after she retired from the bank, they kept calling her back. Because there’s a part of reality that computers and calculators can’t account for—and she had that rare human element. That balance. It made her mind one of her most exquisite assets, which is also what made her descent into Alzheimer’s feel like a cruel joke from the universe.
She was big in church, but not in a showy way. Present. Steady. Always there.
She was a fierce defender of her siblings and her kids. That sometimes pissed me off—because as a niece, I didn’t always feel that same showcase of love. Or maybe that was her way of loving and I just didn’t realize it. That’s food for thought too.
She was layered. And for everyone who feels her absence—I hope you also feel her depth, her presence, and her unwavering strength. May that bring you peace.
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Song: Ride Like the Wind
Artist: Christopher Cross
Album: Christopher Cross
Release Date: 1979
