The Quiet Love of My Aunt Jean

The memories are jumbled, and I am afraid, fading. I know I was twelve. I remember many months after her passing being startled awake from a deep sleep and having an overwhelming feeling of loss. I ran out to the living room, where, luckily, my parents were still awake.

“Sheila?” my mom asked concerned, “What’s wrong, honey?”

I ran over to her on the couch and kneeled and lunged for her all in a rush. As soon as my arms encircled her chest, the tears came in a tidal wave. “She’s gone!” I burst out.

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