My Aunt died.
She was a grand lady, who constantly was after me to get married, since it was apparently my turn or some such nonsense. She always gave of herself, her time, her energy, always with a laugh or smile just for you when you visited even as she dwindled, sickness overtaking her. She was the person that was worried about you and was ready to help, even when she was doing less than great.
My Aunt died.
It sounds like such a simple phrase, until you realize all that goes with it. She was someone's mother and grandmother. Someone's wife. Someone's sister. Someone's daughter. Someone's neighbor and co-worker. Someone's dear friend. And my Aunt.
My Aunt died.
She suffered from Lupus, a terrible disease, but she had battled it so well I think that we'd all forgotten just how fragile she was. I guess I assumed that she'd always be there, and now I'm ashamed of all the times I could have dropped by just to visit, but did not. I can still hear her voice in my head, teasing me about getting grey hair or doting on one of grandchildren.
She's gone now, and I will miss her. Very, very much.
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