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Aunty,
I was six when you died. Cancer. It was pretty fast, I think. Time doesn't really have meaning when you're a kid. And even if it did, I'm not sure I'd remember anyways. That Christmas, when we were opening presents and we thought you had the flu or something, was the last time it was remotely normal. Because you can get over the flu. It sucks for a couple weeks but then you're fine. We thought you'd be fine. Except it wasn't the flu, it was cancer, hiding it's fangs for a moment while we enjoyed Christmas. But after Christmas, the fangs came out and sank into your soul and started sucking. Leaching the energy from you. Stealing your life from you. Stealing you from your life.
The next Christmas wasn't at Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was in care home. I got a scooter and we were riding it around the outside courtyard. But you couldn't go outside because you were sick and tired so you laid on the couch while I played with your kids. And your son goes inside to where you were lying down and we follow. And I sit on the floor. The carpet was thin and rough. And you laid there with your hat off and you shiny bald head on display. And your son takes a stuffed dog and dances it around on your head. And you smile, and laugh, and then we're all laughing and your son giggles.
Then the summer comes, and you're getting worse. It's not working. What they're doing isn't working, not anymore. So your kids, my cousins, come to stay with us so your husband can be by your side. And then one night, your daughter turns on the light to my room. It's midnight, and I'm tired. But she looks at me and says we have to go. She's not doing well. So I get up and I'm sleepy. My mom packs my bag. We put my sister in the car and drive to the airport. We ask for whatever flight they can put us one because it's a family emergency and we'll pay whatever we need to. Everyone is worried but I don't have a full grasp of what's happening. We get tickets, somehow, and get on the plane. And then we get there and we rush to the hospital and we sit in the lobby. There are other people there, friends, family. Grandma and Grandpa are in your room. And your daughter and son are rushed up to your room where your husband waits for them. I sit in the lobby with my dad. My mom goes up. I'm tired, still. It's silent, so quiet. And then my mom comes downstairs and she asks me if I want to go see you. I don't really. I know you're dying. That's why we're here, I know you're going to die. I don't even realize but I start to distance myself and I'm numb and I don't really want to see you but I know that I should. So I get up and we ride the elevator and we get to your room and it's dark. I don't know why but it's dark. And there are people, strange people, standing in the room against the wall, watching you sleep. They look sad. Some of them are crying. But you don't know. You're not here. Because your soul is gone, even though your body is alive. I stand there for a moment, watching you. You don't move, you can't move. The machine behind you is keeping you alive. Your face is covered by an oxygen mask and your body is covered in tubes and wires. And my mom asks if I want to hold your hand. I don't, but I feel their eyes on me so I do. I step forward and I put my hand over yours. It's warm, ish. I'm tentative because I feel like if I touch you too hard your body will die and then all of you will be gone. But I look at you and I know your soul isn't there. I don't know where it's gone but it isn't in that hospital room, attached to tubes and wires and oxygen. And your kids stand behind me, crying. I don't realize it then, but I'm the only one not crying. My cousin, your daughter, tells me the day after you're gone that I was so strong for not crying. I didn't feel strong. I don't feel strong. I feel guilty, as if I didn't love you enough to cry. Like I don't have to emotional capacity to miss you that much. Maybe I don't. But I do miss you.
I cried at your funeral. But not like my mom, your sister. She was speaking, giving the eulogy, and she broke down sobbing. She cried so hard she couldn't speak anymore and she was shaking. My dad had to go up on the stage and finish the speech. I remember that so vividly. The way she was crying for you. She got a necklace with your face engraved on it. That's weird when you think about it, but she wore it all the time. And every night she would lean down and kiss me goodnight and I would kiss her and then her necklace with your face on it. And I would say "goodnight, aunty!" One night, a couple years after you died, my sister got sick. Some kind of stomach bug. She was throwing up over and over again and something inside me snapped. To this day, I don't know what it was. But I broke down crying and I couldn't do it and I ran and hid underneath the dining room table. My parents thought I was scared for my sister, but I didn't feel scared for her. I knew it was just a stomach bug. I didn't know why I was crying. But my mom took of her necklace of you and gave it to me and I held it as I cried. I don't know why but I did and I stopped crying and everything was fine.
In all honesty, I don't really remember you. I remember bits and pieces, but I was only six. I guess I don't miss you that much, then. I didn't know enough of you to miss you terribly. But I mourn what could have been if cancer hadn't eaten your soul. Your daughter wouldn't have had to raise your son. She wouldn't have to deal with her new stepmom. My mom wouldn't have had to cry so hard she couldn't speak. I could've been close to you, I could've known you. My grandparents, your parents, wouldn't have to make a coffee every morning for you and leave it on the shelf with your ashes. You could've been there to drink the coffee. You could've eaten the fruit they leave you, too. They love you so much, you know. I hope you're in heaven, if it's there. I know you believed it was. I hope you're sitting with God and that you're happy. I hope your soul is happy.
And I hope you know I miss you. And I love you. And I'll never forget you.
~ Your niece
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