My last surviving connection to my mother's immediate family died tonight at 10:16, leaving me the trembling matriarch of our small family. The reason for sharing this with you is that just awhile ago I was reading Schank and came to the section on 'relating.' I had read it previously but this time, it struck me deeply.
Earlier in the week, Brenda shared the loss of a number of her family members this past year; I related to her words and immediately wanted to share my experience of multiple loss with her even though it wasn't exactly the same as her story.
Tonight, when I got the word about Aunt Margaret's death, I immediately thought of Brenda and her loss. Then I moved on to recall my childhood memories of Aunt Margaret's house.
It was always exciting to pull off Hwy 231 in Ozark, Alabama after having driven through what seemed like hundreds of miles of parched farmland, to a gentle slope that led up to a true Florida house. That it was virtually the only Florida-style house I knew (I'm from North Florida and rarely if ever saw houses like that) and was sitting in Alabama dawned on me as I grew older, but as a child, seeing that aqua stuccoed house with it's heron screen door ornament and the flamingos out front was a treat.
Her house had a special scent of it's own that eludes me now but I knew it well then. Walking through the front door with the big round port hole and into her living room in my mind today, transports me back into the fifties because that's exactly where that room stayed for forty years; I will miss it as I miss her. I wrote about it once, sending a copy of the poem to her and even though she framed the poem and kept it, she began to change the room . . .