My Aunt Linda passed away recently.
She was full of life … until the stroke last week interrupted her ability to speak and move, then gave her brief and treasured moments of awareness and communication with family in the hospital.
And now she is gone and the days feel surreal. In my mind, she is still feeding an ever-growing group of grandchildren, cousins and friends.
Food was her love language.
Just two weeks ago at the family reunion, I remember her look of contentment when one of the kids walked inside the house, smelled food, and saw pizza. She handed him a plate.
Tell the others there is food, she said.
As another fragrant pizza was pulled from the oven, I remarked on the pizzas being a big hit.
Frozen, she said simply.
She bought a big stack of frozen pizzas on sale knowing that they’d be an easy way to keep a steady supply of food available for the blur of kids playing made-up tag games outside.
Buying things on sale, spontaneity, and decorating for holidays were notable skills. And it was never the wrong time for impromptu dancing.
Funkytown.
During childhood, I saw Aunt Linda frequently until I was 12 years old when we left New Jersey. She was next level cool and I adored her.
I think I was around nine or ten years old when I put up a sign on the garage announcing my bicycle washing business. Aunt Linda was my first customer. I was so proud that she admired my work. I felt seen and responsible.
She worked at a diner, which I thought was really neat, although my goal was to work at a gas station at the time. Even so, I admired her spunk and independence. I looked up to her. And I expected her to be immortal.
Fast forward to my teens when Aunt Linda introduced me to Funkytown. The way I remember it, her car was parked with the radio playing and the song, Funkytown, came on the radio. Aunt Linda turned up the volume and started to dance.
Together, we danced around her iconic periwinkle Gremlin like it was the Maypole. She said that when Funkytown comes on the radio, you have to stop the car and everyone needs to get out and dance.
I had questions. Do you stop even on the turnpike? What if it is raining? Is it against the law to dance on the side of the road?
Funkytown was released in 1979 during Disco Fever. Aunt Linda’s accentuated free-spirit dancing alongside my clumsy awkwardness must have been comical. I imagine she responded to my questions with something sensible about traffic requirements and kept dancing until the conclusion of the song.
When the song comes up on my playlist now, I get up and dance every time.
She continued influencing who I am … and who I am not.
Several years ago, I thanked Aunt Linda for being present in my life. When I needed her, she made time for me and I wanted her to know that I was grateful.
She looked at me in a way that locked my gaze. I did not have a relationship with my aunts, she said. They did not approach me and I did not feel like I could approach them. So, I decided to be the aunt that I wish I had so you guys knew you could call me.
Her words stayed with me … and led me to look in the mirror at the kind of relationships that I had developed with my siblings’ kids up to that point. Coming up short, I gave myself a “Needs Improvement” score and put myself on a performance plan to do better.
And now she is gone.
As I type this, I am looking at the photograph of us in NYC in 1997 and I’m grateful for the time we had together.
I speak with her children and grandchildren regularly (and have for years) in one or more of the infamous cousin chats where we are already sharing pictures, stories and general Linda oddities that help us laugh through the tears.
I will miss her over and over … and, you know, that’s a good thing … it means she met her goal of building a relationship with this very grateful niece.
Rest well, Aunt Linda. I love you.
So sorry for your loss. She was such a lucky lady to have all of you in her life too!!!! ❤️
Lori, this is beautiful. I love the way you captured my mother. I love you.