My Sweet Aunt Lois

Aunt Lois

Aunt Lois graduated last night. 96 years old. Feisty. Sassy. Smart. Beautiful. Independent. Inclusive. That black eye - she fell while on her morning walk… she didn’t want to talk about it, thanks.

Aunt Lois saw me. She heard me. It didn’t matter what I weighed or what I wore or who I was dating or how many pieces my heart was in. Aunt Lois loved me.

It was her home I went to for my senior year spring break trip. Every meal she ever made was exquisite, every dish hand-washed. Her outside chair room was my favorite getaway. My boys remember Aunt Lois’s Keebler salad, chair room, and rubber ducks in her fountain. She loved them, too.

The feather beds, her organ playing, her story telling. On my last trip there, she took me downstairs and showed me her hidden stash of chocolate bricks and bars and wafers. We ate. Chocolate. While giggling. Me and Aunt Lois.

Tonight, I’m so jealous of Heaven.