Beloved

I grieve privately. I tend not share my big sorrows or worries, unless it's absolutely necessary. This is necessary. Because she was something else, and you should know about her.

My Aunt Diane, my wonderful, vibrant, Auntie Di Di, passed away this evening. She raised four daughters, ironed hundreds of altar cloths, canned thousands of quarts of tomatoes and other vegetables, made hundreds of pints of jam, bottled gallons and gallons of home-made wine, baked and frosted several hundred cut-out Christmas cookies every year, and cross-stitched god alone knows how many projects, at least four of which adorn my house. She built great bonfires, taught me to swim, and how to put a minnow on a fishhook. She painted my skinned knees with iodine, greased me up with sunblock, and sprayed me with Off before she'd let me out to play in the summer.

Her love was something, as a kid, it was easy to take for granted because it was so obvious you didn't need to think about it.

She buried her parents, her twin brother, and her husband, and then, before she'd really had time to finish grieving my uncle, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. I am not a violent woman, but the first person who asks me if she smoked may well get their teeth knocked out. Yes, she smoked. She smoked and drank and knew how to throw a hell of a party. She had a great, big, dirty laugh, bright auburn hair, and a delightfully crude sense of humour. She was awesome. You would've liked her. I loved her so much.