Our Aunt Millie

She died today, on her 84th birthday, alone in a nursing home. She died peacefully, in her sleep. Not to say that our family didn't visit; my brother stayed with her for 2 hours yesterday, in tears the whole time because he knew how little time she had left. He asked her to squeeze his hand if she knew who he was, and she responded by feebly moving her hand to her forehead. And my mom and her sister were there yesterday, too. Her last word to anyone was the word "yeah" when asked if she would like some water. I meant to visit her before we moved here, but I never got the chance. You always think you have more time than you actually do. Maybe I just didn't want to accept the fact of her mortality. There had always been an Aunt Millie in my life, so shouldn't she always be around?

My brother told me on the phone yestererday afternoon that she was dying. After we hung up, I lit a yellow, sweet-smelling candle that I intended to blow out when I heard of her passing. I lit another one, a purple candle, for my family that I hoped to reunite with soon. Mom called me at 5 pm, a few hours after my brother and I spoke, to tell me that Aunt Millie had died. Strangely, I looked over at the yellow candle, and it was out. Neither I or my husband had blown it out. The purple candle was still lit.

Aunt Millie would bring cinnamon rolls down the street to her sister's (my grandmother's) house when we would visit. We would enjoy them straight from the package, and the mood was warmed by Aunt Millie's boisterous laugh, sometimes at her own bawdy jokes. I was 7 at the time, and was ushered out of the room before she would spin one of her naughtier yarns. You knew it was bad (and good) when you would hear the uproarious laughter that followed. Getting to hear one of those jokes first-hand at about 13 was a real treat.

"I love you/ A bushel and a peck/ A bushel and a peck/ And a hug around the neck" is what she'd sing to us when we were kids. She called my brother "Bruiser." I was "Jenufenuf."

She hand grated all that coconut for her coconut cake! You knew that the fluffy tower of white cake was a work of love and magic, just quivering underneath that green cake plate lid. She was one hell of a cook, in that small kitchen with the walls painted the colors of nicotine and cooking grease. A towel was the pantry door, and behind it lay all her secret ingredients, ones that no one but her knew about, so secret was her operation. She cooked alone.

She lived alone in that tiny house on the corner for 32 years, until she went into the nursing home 4 years ago. In it, she drank hard, played card games at the kitchen table through a thick haze of smoke, a torrent of beer and a gale of fresh laughter from her brothers and sisters who were visiting from "up the country". She took care of her husband Joe for ten years, until his death in 1968. While together, they swam deep in the rivers of drink and debauchery, but there was always a steady stream of laughter. Their union left no children. She said she'd always considered my mom as her daughter, though. She called her "Judy-Poo."

When Aunt Millie had a stroke in 2002, her cantankerousness was replaced by a docile creature that no one really knew. Someone that was sure she was going home, but who didn't realize that her home had been sold in order for her to get into the nursing home. She spoke often of going into downtown Baton Rouge with Joe, and of meeting with her relatives, especially her mother. She would say that they had visited her that day. Then, as she realized the error, she would tell us, "No that can't be right. I know Mama is dead."

The last time I saw her, Aunt Millie hardly knew who I was. I brought my daughter with me, and she would ask repeatedly, "Whose baby is that?" Her eyes were vacant, and she said she did not feel good. She had to wear diapers due to incontinence. She had sores on her feet that would not heal.

I believe that the woman who was our Aunt Millie died when she had that stroke 4 years ago. Her spirit had succumbed to age and illness. I am glad she is no longer suffering, but I will miss her.

We love you, Aunt Millie. A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.