Reflections on My Aunt

ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES, SHORT FICTION & POETRY

May 2007

Reflections on My Aunt
a short story
by Mary Colcraft

I never really knew my Aunt Grace. That is, I never knew what was in her heart. She was my maiden aunt; whatever that is supposed to mean. I have never fully understood the term to this day. As a peripheral family guardian of my virtue and morality, she was often called upon to keep me company in the absence of my parents. She would accept her calling without demur as if it were her duty. We would sit together in her living room until it was time for me to go to bed. At such times, she would pause at her knitting and tell me it was time. I would then gather what I had brought down from my room and head up the stairs.

I have often wondered about her, now that she is gone. What was it we shared and what was in her heart? My mother often said I looked like her, but I think the similarity was only in my mother’s eyes.

She would permit me to draw, or write letters, during our time together, and sometimes she would read to me from Dickens or Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. I thought, at one time, that she had some affinity for the tragic love story in Wuthering Heights and I would fantasize about some secret lover she might have had. But she gave me no indication that such a person ever existed. Her life, it seemed, had been plain canvas, without any touch of colour.

I felt sad for her, years later, when I realized it. To be sure, she never gave me any reason to show her the least bit of affection or sympathy, but there are some feelings, it seemed to me, that everyone should experience. She should have known love.

If I finished a drawing and showed her my work, she would nod her approval, without smiling and continue her knitting. She would deign, however, to correct my writing; telling me that correct grammar was a sign of good breeding and needed always to be observed. She would make no comment on the content; leaving that to me. They were silly letters, written to my school friends. They spoke of dreams and fantasies of which I am sure she disapproved.

As a young girl, approaching her sixteenth year of age, I found my relationship with my aunt limiting. There was so much I wanted to share with her, but she was not one for sharing. I knew that, and it frustrated me. I dreamed of shocking her with revelations of the boys I had met at school or stories of how I had experimented with smoking. But none of these ideas gained physical fruition. It was not that I was afraid of her strait-laced ways - I was not - but there seemed a delicate feeling of inappropriateness in any view of disturbing whatever relationship we had. I cannot explain this feeling. We had something, together, but I could never define what it was. As a result, I accepted what she gave and was reasonably content with it.

I have said that she is no longer alive. She passed away soon after my thirtieth birthday. I felt little when I heard of her passing, given the fact that we had never been really close. However, I felt it my duty to attend the funeral home. My parents were away on a trip to France. I am sure they sent their regrets, but to whom I would not know; just another card on the visitation table.

Aunt Grace was laid out at the Bolton Funeral Home. I recall it was a blustery, rainy day and I had forgotten to bring an umbrella.

Nevertheless, I found the funeral home and was directed to the room where she lay. There was no one else there, but then, I had expected no one.

It came to me, when I looked at her for the last time, that she seemed so peaceful in her casket; as if the cares in the small life she had led were all gone. Somehow, I was glad I had made the last trip to see her. I felt that we shared an understanding of the truth of peace. Perhaps that was it. I don’t know.

The director of the funeral home entered the room and asked me quietly if he could help in any way. I shook my head.

When I finally turned away from the casket, I was surprised to see a distinguished-looking man, with greying temples, seated towards the back of the room. As I moved towards him, he began to stand, as if he recognized me. But then, he sat down again, looking confused and embarrassed.

I could have spoken to him, but I didn’t.

I walked out of the funeral home into the pelting rain, regretting, once more, that I had forgotten to bring my umbrella with me.

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