handwriting still cling to the refrigerator, surrounded by my cousin Joshâs schoolwork.
They say that when a house is passed over by a tornado, it can do strange things to the
things inside. They say that sometimes a whole room can be destroyed and the table will still
be set, candlesticks standing, untouched by the violence of the storm. As I look at the
refrigerator, unchanged in nearly a year, I wonder why some things have been left alone, while
others have been completely dismantled. Itâs like a half-hearted attempt has been made to
honor her memory.
I walk onto the patio. Missy runs after a bird and disappears around the corner of the
house, leaving me alone.
I stand there, knowing that it will be for the last time. I see the backyard through the
eyes of a child, a teenager, an adult, a parent. I look at Aunt Valâs pool and remember when I
was so small, riding around it on a Big Wheel seemed to take all day. I remember playing with
my cool Trash Compactor Monster in the shallow end, before I was big enough to brave the deep
end and its mysteries, with my older cousins. I remember being unable to ever successfully
complete a flip off the diving board and reflexively rub my lower back.
I look at the slide, and the sobs which have been threatening since I walked into the
house begin.
In summer of last year, I took my stepkids, Ryan and Nolan, to spend the day with Aunt
Val. The three of us sat with her on the patio, eating hot dogs sheâd grilled for us, drinking
punch sheâd made. The kids talked eagerly with her about their plans for the rest of the
summer and the upcoming school year. I watched her listen to them, the same way sheâd listened
to me say the same things 20 years earlier, happy that they were getting to share in her
unconditional love the way I had.
We went swimming, Nolan and Ryan both doing cannonballs and flips, Aunt Val always giving
them an approving, âGood for you, kiddo!â after each trick.
God, I can hear her voice as I write this.
When they grew tired of diving board tricks, they took to the slide, going head-first, on
their backs, on their knees.
Ryan was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting for Nolan to get out of the landing
area, when he screamed and raced into the water. I immediately knew something was wrong, and
rushed to the waterâs edge to meet him.
I got him out and saw that heâd been stung by a wasp.
I dried his tears, patched him up with baking soda and some Tylenol, and prepared to spend
the rest of the afternoon inside, watching TV.
Aunt Val wouldnât hear any of that. She picked up a broom and some Raid, and marched out
to the nest of angry wasps, which we now knew was just beneath the upper edge of the slide.
The wasps were pretty pissed and beginning to swarm, but I couldnât stop my 84-year-old great
aunt from wiping them out so the kids could continue to play.
I look at the slide, and remember how scared I was that sheâd get stung and would go into
shock. I remember how much fun the kids had with her.
I recall a thought I had back then, watching her battle with those wasps: Aunt
Val isnât going to be with us forever. Some day Iâm going to stand here and sheâll be gone
and Iâll cry .
So I cry. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. Itâs not fair that she died.
Itâs not fair at all. I miss her. She was in perfect health one day and the next she was gone.
Itâs not fair and I miss her and I have to say goodbye to this house and thatâs not fair
either.
The finality of her loss takes hold and refuses to let go. I cry until my sides hurt and
my throat is dry. My cheeks are soaked, my nose is running. Itâs fitting that as I bid
farewell to the house and person who played such an important part in my childhood, I sob like
a child.
After several minutes, I pull myself together, take a hard
They say that when a house is passed over by a tornado, it can do strange things to the
things inside. They say that sometimes a whole room can be destroyed and the table will still
be set, candlesticks standing, untouched by the violence of the storm. As I look at the
refrigerator, unchanged in nearly a year, I wonder why some things have been left alone, while
others have been completely dismantled. Itâs like a half-hearted attempt has been made to
honor her memory.
I walk onto the patio. Missy runs after a bird and disappears around the corner of the
house, leaving me alone.
I stand there, knowing that it will be for the last time. I see the backyard through the
eyes of a child, a teenager, an adult, a parent. I look at Aunt Valâs pool and remember when I
was so small, riding around it on a Big Wheel seemed to take all day. I remember playing with
my cool Trash Compactor Monster in the shallow end, before I was big enough to brave the deep
end and its mysteries, with my older cousins. I remember being unable to ever successfully
complete a flip off the diving board and reflexively rub my lower back.
I look at the slide, and the sobs which have been threatening since I walked into the
house begin.
In summer of last year, I took my stepkids, Ryan and Nolan, to spend the day with Aunt
Val. The three of us sat with her on the patio, eating hot dogs sheâd grilled for us, drinking
punch sheâd made. The kids talked eagerly with her about their plans for the rest of the
summer and the upcoming school year. I watched her listen to them, the same way sheâd listened
to me say the same things 20 years earlier, happy that they were getting to share in her
unconditional love the way I had.
We went swimming, Nolan and Ryan both doing cannonballs and flips, Aunt Val always giving
them an approving, âGood for you, kiddo!â after each trick.
God, I can hear her voice as I write this.
When they grew tired of diving board tricks, they took to the slide, going head-first, on
their backs, on their knees.
Ryan was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting for Nolan to get out of the landing
area, when he screamed and raced into the water. I immediately knew something was wrong, and
rushed to the waterâs edge to meet him.
I got him out and saw that heâd been stung by a wasp.
I dried his tears, patched him up with baking soda and some Tylenol, and prepared to spend
the rest of the afternoon inside, watching TV.
Aunt Val wouldnât hear any of that. She picked up a broom and some Raid, and marched out
to the nest of angry wasps, which we now knew was just beneath the upper edge of the slide.
The wasps were pretty pissed and beginning to swarm, but I couldnât stop my 84-year-old great
aunt from wiping them out so the kids could continue to play.
I look at the slide, and remember how scared I was that sheâd get stung and would go into
shock. I remember how much fun the kids had with her.
I recall a thought I had back then, watching her battle with those wasps: Aunt
Val isnât going to be with us forever. Some day Iâm going to stand here and sheâll be gone
and Iâll cry .
So I cry. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. Itâs not fair that she died.
Itâs not fair at all. I miss her. She was in perfect health one day and the next she was gone.
Itâs not fair and I miss her and I have to say goodbye to this house and thatâs not fair
either.
The finality of her loss takes hold and refuses to let go. I cry until my sides hurt and
my throat is dry. My cheeks are soaked, my nose is running. Itâs fitting that as I bid
farewell to the house and person who played such an important part in my childhood, I sob like
a child.
After several minutes, I pull myself together, take a hard
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