I have no legitimate excuse. I have been telling myself, and the ones close around me, that I have been too busy to make the phone call. I tried to dissect my psyche to see why it was so difficult for me, but could not come up with an honest answer. I absolutely love my aunt and uncle, probably much more than they realize.
This is the Aunt who was my surrogate mother. The one, throughout my life, who knows me - really knows me - from the beginning to now. The one who I trusted my young woman confidences to, and she never broke them - not a single one. And if she did, she would have been right to do so, and I would have not been pissed at her. Choosing me as a favorite from the many nieces and nephews, her love for me never once wavered, no matter what a little shit I was or how much trouble I caused. She had always, with no exception, accepted me for me. I love her dearly for this.
Her husband, my uncle, was always a favorite of mine too. When I was a little girl, I thought he looked very distinguished. He is first generation immigrant from Croatia, when the old Croatia existed. (Then it became Yugoslavia, then Croatia again, then Yugoslavia again, and now we’re back to the original Croatia. No, I was never a whiz in geography, but kept up with it because of Uncle.) He was tall and slender, with dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. Never had I heard him yell, as he is low keyed and laid back. His extensive cancer battle has been ongoing for about twenty years. No matter which cancer has been thrown at him - pancreas, bone marrow, lymph node, leukemia - he’s been able to fight it and come back. Radiation, chemotherapy, medications nor death sentences have ever broken his spirit.
Aunt and Uncle have three kids of their own - one a year older, two younger than me, by one and two years respectively. During my childhood, they lived about 4 blocks away. The visits were easy to make on foot, and my cousins and I are very close in age, so we got along well. To this day though, I can not believe how my mother and Aunt are so entirely different from each other. Though these two women are sisters, and once from the same family, and reared in the same house, when they had their own families, their two homes could not have been more different and opposite from one another.
One home was filled with anger, fear and abuse. The other filled with love and understanding. One had a woman who screamed, and the other had a woman who smiled so hard, deep dimples are impressed on her cheeks. One home had no hugs and the other had many. The four blocks became smaller for a young girl, and became an easy walk to their sanctuary. I realized from a very early age my home life was different than others. Aunt and Uncle’s home was an escape, and, with no doubt in all my years, I was always welcomed.
There is an extended family reunion soon approaching. I have not sent my response or regret for attending yet. I could say I was busy, and, actually, it has been a busy summer, but I need no more alibis for myself. I have deliberately not responded, because that would mean I would have to call Aunt and Uncle to let them know if I was coming. Apparently, they were not going to attend, but had a change of heart and are now going, if Uncle feels up to it. Because of his health, they will not know until the day of the reunion.
What was I to do now? Was it too late to call them? The Baby set me straight today. Her and I stopped at the bank for her to make a deposit. As we both were getting out of the car, she reminded me she didn’t need my help in the bank (duh!), and I should stay in the car and call Aunt and Uncle. What is the matter? You love them, and you’re fighting love being offered to you, and this love has been a steady stream to you all of your life. Just call them and quit pissing real love away. Not many times does the child correct the parent, but I was absolutely reprimanded.
I reluctantly made the call, and of course, I was still hoping for the voice mail to pick up. Uncle answered instead. Just hearing his voice melted my heart, and a smile was plastered on my face. Just after my diagnosis, he and I shared cancer horror stories. Wait. That’s not really true. He let me unload on him, he hugged me, and told me he loved me. He said to be strong, to pray, and not to put my energy into worrying, but into the fight instead. I was scared out of my mind, until he spoke to me. I was eight again, with Uncle talking to me, telling me everything was going to be alright. I have a photo of this moment. ~~sigh~~ His voice on the telephone pierced right through my stupid little girl attitude. After a minute or so, he gave the telephone to Aunt. In the front seat of my car, I melted again when she spoke, with the same unending smile still embossed on my face.
Why would I take on so much in life, and not have a few minutes for people so loving to me? I kept thinking I must figure this out before next weekend, but in the deepest part of me, I know why I made this task such a blockade. I know they know. After many years experience of being a mother myself, I now know Aunt and Uncle knew what was at my childhood home versus what was at their home. They didn’t do anything to correct the situation, but really, it wasn’t theirs to correct. However, they did create a safe haven for me, a warmth that has lasted inside myself for many years, and a memory of what a home could be, so I could pass along the same type of home to my children. They, their home, and my cousins gave me hope - and I used this hope to ask for help, so a cycle could and would be broken.
Some days I feel old, with creaking and cracking bones, taking medication to keep from getting sore, while force feeding chemicals into my body to make it cooperate. Though today, I felt like the goofy, clumsy kid from years ago, and ashamed I didn’t appreciate what was given to me.
Good is good. The good is great when it stands by itself, because it is very easily identified as good. But when the good is mixed up with shit, it becomes somewhat cloudy and confusing, and sometimes makes the good appear to be shit too. I will have make a conscious effort to remember what they gave me, and separate the bad that took place four blocks away. It’s long past the time I be grateful and tell them how awesome they are.
I am humbled.
“Once there was a way, to get back home. Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby.” -- Sir Paul
This is the Aunt who was my surrogate mother. The one, throughout my life, who knows me - really knows me - from the beginning to now. The one who I trusted my young woman confidences to, and she never broke them - not a single one. And if she did, she would have been right to do so, and I would have not been pissed at her. Choosing me as a favorite from the many nieces and nephews, her love for me never once wavered, no matter what a little shit I was or how much trouble I caused. She had always, with no exception, accepted me for me. I love her dearly for this.
Her husband, my uncle, was always a favorite of mine too. When I was a little girl, I thought he looked very distinguished. He is first generation immigrant from Croatia, when the old Croatia existed. (Then it became Yugoslavia, then Croatia again, then Yugoslavia again, and now we’re back to the original Croatia. No, I was never a whiz in geography, but kept up with it because of Uncle.) He was tall and slender, with dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. Never had I heard him yell, as he is low keyed and laid back. His extensive cancer battle has been ongoing for about twenty years. No matter which cancer has been thrown at him - pancreas, bone marrow, lymph node, leukemia - he’s been able to fight it and come back. Radiation, chemotherapy, medications nor death sentences have ever broken his spirit.
Aunt and Uncle have three kids of their own - one a year older, two younger than me, by one and two years respectively. During my childhood, they lived about 4 blocks away. The visits were easy to make on foot, and my cousins and I are very close in age, so we got along well. To this day though, I can not believe how my mother and Aunt are so entirely different from each other. Though these two women are sisters, and once from the same family, and reared in the same house, when they had their own families, their two homes could not have been more different and opposite from one another.
One home was filled with anger, fear and abuse. The other filled with love and understanding. One had a woman who screamed, and the other had a woman who smiled so hard, deep dimples are impressed on her cheeks. One home had no hugs and the other had many. The four blocks became smaller for a young girl, and became an easy walk to their sanctuary. I realized from a very early age my home life was different than others. Aunt and Uncle’s home was an escape, and, with no doubt in all my years, I was always welcomed.
There is an extended family reunion soon approaching. I have not sent my response or regret for attending yet. I could say I was busy, and, actually, it has been a busy summer, but I need no more alibis for myself. I have deliberately not responded, because that would mean I would have to call Aunt and Uncle to let them know if I was coming. Apparently, they were not going to attend, but had a change of heart and are now going, if Uncle feels up to it. Because of his health, they will not know until the day of the reunion.
What was I to do now? Was it too late to call them? The Baby set me straight today. Her and I stopped at the bank for her to make a deposit. As we both were getting out of the car, she reminded me she didn’t need my help in the bank (duh!), and I should stay in the car and call Aunt and Uncle. What is the matter? You love them, and you’re fighting love being offered to you, and this love has been a steady stream to you all of your life. Just call them and quit pissing real love away. Not many times does the child correct the parent, but I was absolutely reprimanded.
I reluctantly made the call, and of course, I was still hoping for the voice mail to pick up. Uncle answered instead. Just hearing his voice melted my heart, and a smile was plastered on my face. Just after my diagnosis, he and I shared cancer horror stories. Wait. That’s not really true. He let me unload on him, he hugged me, and told me he loved me. He said to be strong, to pray, and not to put my energy into worrying, but into the fight instead. I was scared out of my mind, until he spoke to me. I was eight again, with Uncle talking to me, telling me everything was going to be alright. I have a photo of this moment. ~~sigh~~ His voice on the telephone pierced right through my stupid little girl attitude. After a minute or so, he gave the telephone to Aunt. In the front seat of my car, I melted again when she spoke, with the same unending smile still embossed on my face.
Why would I take on so much in life, and not have a few minutes for people so loving to me? I kept thinking I must figure this out before next weekend, but in the deepest part of me, I know why I made this task such a blockade. I know they know. After many years experience of being a mother myself, I now know Aunt and Uncle knew what was at my childhood home versus what was at their home. They didn’t do anything to correct the situation, but really, it wasn’t theirs to correct. However, they did create a safe haven for me, a warmth that has lasted inside myself for many years, and a memory of what a home could be, so I could pass along the same type of home to my children. They, their home, and my cousins gave me hope - and I used this hope to ask for help, so a cycle could and would be broken.
Some days I feel old, with creaking and cracking bones, taking medication to keep from getting sore, while force feeding chemicals into my body to make it cooperate. Though today, I felt like the goofy, clumsy kid from years ago, and ashamed I didn’t appreciate what was given to me.
Good is good. The good is great when it stands by itself, because it is very easily identified as good. But when the good is mixed up with shit, it becomes somewhat cloudy and confusing, and sometimes makes the good appear to be shit too. I will have make a conscious effort to remember what they gave me, and separate the bad that took place four blocks away. It’s long past the time I be grateful and tell them how awesome they are.
I am humbled.
“Once there was a way, to get back home. Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby.” -- Sir Paul
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