On Monday my Auntie Joan died. She was my Nanny’s older sister. Nanny is British for grandmother, in case you are wondering. I know very little about my Auntie Joan. I know she lived in England her whole life and grew up during the Second Great War with my Nanny. I met her in person two or three times in my childhood, when she came to visit, but it has been many years since I last saw her or talk to her. Her only real presence in my life came in the form of birthday cards with quaint British country-sides pictured on the front that I received faithfully on my birthday every year for twenty one years. On my birthday this year, which was less than two weeks ago, I didn’t receive a card. I guess due to her failing health she just wasn’t able to send one, a cruel and stealthy foreshadowing of what was to come.
I have dampened images of her in my memory from what I’d imagine when my Nanny told me her childhood stories about how they’d run from British soldiers or fight to greet their Dad when he came home from work; more a figment of my imagination than a real, living, breathing person. In a sense, I knew her no more than a stranger in the park you always see walking a dog, or that person you pass on the elevator everyday at work. You know they are there, but there is nothing beyond that and you would never think you’d notice if they were not there tomorrow.
In the early waking hours before dawn Monday morning, my Mom came in my room in frantic tears calling my name. Usually I sleep through her calls, but the alarm in her tone shocked me to life. For a few fleeting moments dread coursed through my veins, until I heard her cries, “She’s gone! She’s gone. My Aunt Joanie is gone.” She sat on the edge of my bed in tears for I don’t know how long until her sobs faded to silent tears. I didn’t know what to say, words are no comfort in moments like this, so I just sat awake with her to let her know I loved her and that everything was going to be alright.
I struggled to fall back asleep. I barely knew this woman, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss. It was like a small part of me, a part yet discovered, died. My dreams raced with thoughts of what it would have been like to visit her and the rest of my British family, something I’ve always wanted to do. I thought about how, for twenty one years, this kind lady sent me birthday cards and how I had never sent her one back. I never called her, never wrote her, never thanked her. And I remember complaining to my Mom that the only card I got in the mail on my birthday this year was from my Nanny.
Later that day I called my Nanny to see how she was doing. She lives in New Jersey with my ailing grandfather, unable to leave him to attend the funeral. Her visa is long past expired so it wouldn’t be possible for her to be there anyway. I didn’t say much, just listened to her as she cried and told me of all the wonderful things she and, “my Joanie” as she called her, did as children and my imagined Auntie Joan reappeared. Nanny told me that when my Granddad found out about Joanie’s death, he grabbed her arm and with a forgotten boldness cried, “Don’t you leave me!” His sister died only weeks before.
By Wednesday the whole experience was gone and forgotten. My Mom would make comments every so often about how Nanny was doing or how the family was tying up lose ends in England, but I had already moved on and distanced myself from the loss. Honestly, it felt strange that I should mourn over the death of someone I barely knew, like I didn’t have a right to grieve her death when I had no concern during her life. And to have remorse would have been a selfish act.
It is now Thursday and I’m getting home very late from school. I came in my room and my mail was on my desk. Underneath some billing statements and advertisements lay an envelope with that all too familiar air-mail stamp and frail hand-writing. On the front of the card is a painting of an English cottage and a stream in front with a stone bridge crossing over its still waters. I opened it with tears in eyes and read what she wrote, “Happy Birthday, Matthew. With love and best wishes, A. Joan.”
Rest in Peace, Auntie Joan. I will miss you.
I have dampened images of her in my memory from what I’d imagine when my Nanny told me her childhood stories about how they’d run from British soldiers or fight to greet their Dad when he came home from work; more a figment of my imagination than a real, living, breathing person. In a sense, I knew her no more than a stranger in the park you always see walking a dog, or that person you pass on the elevator everyday at work. You know they are there, but there is nothing beyond that and you would never think you’d notice if they were not there tomorrow.
In the early waking hours before dawn Monday morning, my Mom came in my room in frantic tears calling my name. Usually I sleep through her calls, but the alarm in her tone shocked me to life. For a few fleeting moments dread coursed through my veins, until I heard her cries, “She’s gone! She’s gone. My Aunt Joanie is gone.” She sat on the edge of my bed in tears for I don’t know how long until her sobs faded to silent tears. I didn’t know what to say, words are no comfort in moments like this, so I just sat awake with her to let her know I loved her and that everything was going to be alright.
I struggled to fall back asleep. I barely knew this woman, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss. It was like a small part of me, a part yet discovered, died. My dreams raced with thoughts of what it would have been like to visit her and the rest of my British family, something I’ve always wanted to do. I thought about how, for twenty one years, this kind lady sent me birthday cards and how I had never sent her one back. I never called her, never wrote her, never thanked her. And I remember complaining to my Mom that the only card I got in the mail on my birthday this year was from my Nanny.
Later that day I called my Nanny to see how she was doing. She lives in New Jersey with my ailing grandfather, unable to leave him to attend the funeral. Her visa is long past expired so it wouldn’t be possible for her to be there anyway. I didn’t say much, just listened to her as she cried and told me of all the wonderful things she and, “my Joanie” as she called her, did as children and my imagined Auntie Joan reappeared. Nanny told me that when my Granddad found out about Joanie’s death, he grabbed her arm and with a forgotten boldness cried, “Don’t you leave me!” His sister died only weeks before.
By Wednesday the whole experience was gone and forgotten. My Mom would make comments every so often about how Nanny was doing or how the family was tying up lose ends in England, but I had already moved on and distanced myself from the loss. Honestly, it felt strange that I should mourn over the death of someone I barely knew, like I didn’t have a right to grieve her death when I had no concern during her life. And to have remorse would have been a selfish act.
It is now Thursday and I’m getting home very late from school. I came in my room and my mail was on my desk. Underneath some billing statements and advertisements lay an envelope with that all too familiar air-mail stamp and frail hand-writing. On the front of the card is a painting of an English cottage and a stream in front with a stone bridge crossing over its still waters. I opened it with tears in eyes and read what she wrote, “Happy Birthday, Matthew. With love and best wishes, A. Joan.”
Rest in Peace, Auntie Joan. I will miss you.
3 comments:
Matt sorry to hear about your Auntie. Your story reminds me of my wifes mother who also was from England. She came to America in the early 1940's and never did get to go back to England. Her whole family finally passed and she didn't get to attend any of their funerals. My wife, like you, every birthday always received a card on her birthday and they would always send her a few english pounds. Brings back memories. Your anonymous friend in Dodge county
I wish I had made a way to get to England before her death, but I guess hindsight is 20/20 (what does that mean anyway). I'm much more motivated to visit my remaining family now. It is ironic to me that all this happened as I've began to think about my family history and where I came from. When you're young none of that stuff matters...
Sorry to hear this man. My condolences...
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