Dimmed Life

This morning we say goodbye to my Aunt Jenny who passed away on 1^st July. I am not ready. I don’t want to do this. I just want to run into the dining room of my nan’s house where we spent so much time together when I was a child and find her there.

My aunt was sick. Really sick. As long as I can remember she’s been in and out of hospital for all types of operations and treatments yet even when she lost all of her weight and hair after chemotherapy, her light bulb smile and contagious positivity remained. That was my Aunt: no matter what happened, she never lost faith. 

Some times you take people for granted. Aunt Jenny was always sick but she always got better. Initially, I felt so angry but there are no answers in anger. Now I just feel as though the lights have been dimmed.  I recall speaking to my mother whilst on the metro in Paris. That moment is imprinted on my brain; I remember the strangers around me as the train whizzed towards my stop, the wavering of my mum’s voice as she told me we’d lost her best friend. She has two teenagers whom I barely know because I’ve been off living my life around the world. I wish this wasn’t the case. I wish I could comfort them.  During this moment, I’ve realised how so little of what/who I thought was relevant really isn’t. Why does it take losing someone to make you realise how important they are? She was a constant in some many people’s lives and I don’t know how we can go on without her.

I miss the seemingly meaningless things; the emails about salad dressings, commenting on each other’s crazy cat lady pictures and the way she would raise her eyebrows in an hilarious oh-no-you-didn’t manner. What scares me most is that I cannot remember her voice. I see her beautiful smile everywhere I go and every time I try to sleep, her eyes intently looking at me as I recount my experiences and I see her laughing but I cannot hear her voice. I so desperately want to remember.

I love her. I miss her. I am heartbroken.