My Aunt Pat
I think when a person close to us dies we try very hard to remember everything about them all at once. Every memory. Every laugh. Every tear. Every sound they made. And as I was remembering what made me smile the most about my Aunt Patsy it was her voice. I can remember hearing her as easily as I can remember what she looked like.
I remember her voice in so many forms and shapes. When it was joined by laughter or when it was joined by yelling. When it shared an opinion or paused temporarily to listen to yours before roaring back in approval or dissent.
I loved her opinions. I loved watching her, throughout her life, stand toe-to-toe with some very stubborn, opinionated men who will remain nameless and share her opinion.
I loved her voice because it reminded me of my grandmother. And I loved her voice because I could remember it playing in tandem with my mom’s. Like a west Baltimore version of Lennon and McCartney. I remember being upstairs in our house and hearing my mom on the phone and knowing with absolute certainty that she was on the phone with Patsy. Sometimes I would go into the kitchen and watch as my mom, holding the phone to her ear would be silent and then just erupt in laughter. I mean erupt!
And that was just over the phone. Walking into a party at Stella Drive or at Patsy’s House. Walking into Deer Trail or Caves Road. Into Uncle Sandy’s. You would typically hear Patsy before you’d see her. And this is in no way a slight. It is absolutely something that we have missed since she got sick and we will miss forever. Having her there and hearing her voice meant energy. It meant love. It meant passion. It meant strength.
It’s absence and her absence will be impossible to replace. Love you Aunt Patsy. I know you’re with my mom, Grandma, and back with Uncle John. Please tell them all we miss them and love them.
