Ode to Aunt Linda

I am 10 years old. My parents often can’t pick me up from hockey practice until later.

I’m not terribly upset because Aunt Linda lives one block from the rink. She always seems happy to see me.

Her kids have grown, so I have the place to myself. No surprise—she’s baked fresh bread. A thick slice is toasted, spread with butter, and smothered with creamed corn.

I find myself daydreaming about my parents forgetting to pick me up. I become an orphan and Aunt Linda adopts me.

***

I am in grade school. Aunt Linda is a para teacher and peeks her head in halfway through math class to collect a few students who need extra help.

She brings them back to her room, but before leaving, she waves and I wave back.

Never in life have I wanted to struggle with multiplication so badly.

***

It is summer and I am 13 or so—old enough to wield a pruning machete. Uncle Duane hires me to trim Christmas trees at the farm.

Often Aunt Linda comes along to help, which makes me happy and also relieved.

Her philosophy on when to stop working always seems more reasonable than Uncle Duane’s.

***

Thank you, Aunt Linda, for all the memories. I, like so many others, could write an entire book of these vignettes. You were a true rock in our childhoods and will be dearly missed.

Love,
Aaron

P.S. You can read her official obituary here.