Aunt Bernice is 90 years old

This past weekend, Ethan and I took the boys to Harrisburg, IL, to celebrate my great-aunt Bernice's 90th birthday. It's been probably fifteen years since I last saw her, but during those years we've shared some letters. I always send her pictures of the boys and she sends cards for them on all the holidays. When I saw her, there was a bit of awkwardness.... would she know who I was? My age has doubled since we last saw one another. And yet, I felt this connection to her. Almost a longing for her to look at me and say, "Susie, I am so glad that you are here". I wanted to mean a lot to her. I wanted the letters and photographs I have been sending her to matter.

I think it's because my grandma (her sister), has been gone for such a long time now, and I wanted to feel connected to Grandma through Aunt Bernice. All of my grandparents are dead now; three of them passing before my eighth birthday. Grandma Ruth was really the only grandparent I had ever known. She died when I was 21 years old.... before Ethan came into my life... or Jack .... or Sam. It's when I look at my sons that I really feel that loss most exquisitely.

So, there was Aunt Bernice... all 90 years of her... quite overwhelmed by the surprise birthday party and all of the guests clamoring to hug her and congratulate her. I waited my turn and introduced her to my family. She hugged Jack (who shares not only the name, but the birthdate of her and my Grandma's beloved brother) and smiled as he ran around being the wild two-year old that he is, and she held Sam and said that he was as sweet a baby as my Uncle Dave (her rumored favorite nephew) was.

Later that night, back at her home, a handful of my aunts and uncles, my dad, and my family and I sat around her living room talking and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. She sat and rocked in her chair with the same faraway smile I so often saw on my own grandmother's face when surrounded by a similar cast of characters. She wasn't listening to the conversations and private jokes being passed among us; she had turned off her hearing aid hours ago. But, she loved that we were all there, together. And so did I.

I'm glad that I have this memory of her.