On your own

Here outside on the porch in the dark, backdoor light turned off,  kitchen lights turned down, street lights blocked in part by tree leaves, the roar of traffic (somewhat) muted, motorbikers excepted.

My sister down in Washington getting ready to empty and renovate my aunt's apartment as she moves up to Connecticut to live with my mother has been sending old photo images which appear--kaching, kaching in the darkness--in my messages: me? as a  baby; my christening with mum, dad, Aunt Ann and others in front of a church; Aunt Ann as a young attractive adventuresome woman, on a ski lift, cycling across Canada.

So much I don't know about you, Aunt, and now am too shy to ask. I know you loved freedom, and hate to give it up now, but what else, or rather who else did you love?  Us, of course; you've always been loyal and generous to each of your nephews and nieces, but I confess I've been incurious about you, someone so constant in my life. You've always been private, and after all, I'm the younger generation. Maybe your siblings know and haven't spoken.

Growing up one of four in depression Glasgow, you claimed independence as soon as you could, making your own way in the world, proposing to take care of yourself, and have done so right up to just now, when, in your tenth decade, you need others nearby for backup.

 

Hardy, self-contained but with a gift for friendship, not reflective (I think) but in fact rather literal, a regular lion of reminiscence, you're now, reluctantly, leaning into the bosom of your family, led by sister and niece, ready to care for you.

These photos, sent around the country, are eliciting responses as other family  members understand the significance of the moment. The night is full of conversation about you, Aunt, and the big change you're making.

How handsome you looked and lively; indeed, the spark is still there, though banked by time. If such an upheaval, relocation after all these years and not to another place all your own, has to happen, the unearthing of these photos is something positive in the process.

Seeing you next time I visit mum.