Last month I lost my childhood. My first cousin, Ann, died, taking with her all the memories we shared over the years. She was 89 and a fiesty, bright, fiercely loyal family member and friend. Then she tripped coming out of the hair salon and bought a one way ticket to endless medical maladies that come with a broken hip.
Other complications unsued and she was gone. She was the big sister I never had,9 years older, both of us without siblings. Until I was 13 we lived a block apart in Chicago, sometimes in the same two story flat that my grandfather owned. I think about her every day, newly startled that she is gone.
The last time we visited her in Glendora, barely a year ago, she drove Donna and me to a restaurant and later spread out old photos on the kitchen table. She pushed one over to me to keep. The day of my confirmation in the Catholic church, me in white sitting demurely, her standing next to me, her hand on my shoulder, my Godmother. Or Sponsor, whatever they called it then. She filled that role with class.
I was her page girl at her wedding in the mid forties before her sailor groom, Tony, headed off to the South Pacific. After the war, they moved to California and I visited them when I was 17, a bit more interested in my navy boyfriend stationed in San Diego. Tony took on the role of big brother, more like a scary bouncer in a bar looking down at my little sailor swain. Did his best to scare him off.
During that visit , we celebrated their first born, Al's second birthday. He called me Ree because he couldn't say Ann Marie. He is now retired from the Sheriff's Dept., Los Angeles. Tony is up in heaven chewing Ann out for taking so long to get there.
I was tempted to stay forever but headed back to Chicago where my life took a different turn. And the rest is history. But I can't sit over a cup of coffee and reminisce on that history with Ann (we called her Nin).
We were together the night our grandfather committed suicide, and all the drama that went along with that defining moment in our lives.
I think I'll put that memory to rest, now that Nin is gone. Instead, I'll flash back on her wedding night, the ballroom full of happy dancing people, my dad letting me dance on his feet. My mom trying a few steps of the Charleston.
Nin was the third loss of special people in my life this year. Proud, brave, kind and gentle friends, all. Jan Curran, my writer buddy and lupus pal, She deserves her own blog of remembering.
Jeannette Simmons, my sole/soul sister. Never to be forgotten, In my heart. I see her laughing, cracking corny jokes, witty comebacks, enduring her lot with grace, strength and a stoicism that was awesome through her Wheelchair years, her mission of correspondence that made recipients smile and feel special.
This momentous year when I left my seventies behind, turning 80 of all things. Married this month for 40 years to the new guy in town who lectured to a group of people, asking if they loved themselves. Turned out we did, and each other as well.
So Says Sassy
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