Aunt Mary

Silent inside today.

Silent outside.

Silent stone courtyard, and a silent sky trying to snow, and silent halls at work while everyone's gone to lunch. I get up to get some tea and stood at a huge picture window, listening: nothing. The snow may make a sound on the tree branches, but I can't hear it through the glass.

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Today my father called to say that Aunt Mary died. Aunt Mary is actually my great aunt, though nobody ever used the "great," since my grandmother was one of 11 and my grandfather was one of 13. Growing up there were just aunts and uncles, and they were everywhere-- silver-haired smiling faces bending down to coo and pinch and demand some "sugar" on their cheeks. The cheeks were soft and wrinkled.

Aunt Mary's was less wrinkled than most. She was married to my grandmother's youngest brother, a brother so much younger that when their mother died, my grandmother filled the void for him. She was the one my Uncle Carlton remembers baking biscuits and mending pants and sewing on buttons. All those lanky, motherless boys were expected to be too tough to cry, but my grandmother would have kissed their skinned knees anyway. I know this because she kissed my steely face more than a few times. "Go on and let it out," she would say, patting my leg. "I won't watch you."

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I wonder, sometimes, if Mary reminded Carlton of my grandmother. His sister-who-was-like-a-mother.

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When I was very little, Aunt Mary was just an older version of my own mother. A nurse like my mother, she worked for the same medical practice, and had the same easy manner when it camer to making small talk. Aunt Mary was never shocked by anything. She had a quiet but sudden laugh that would fall out of her like marbles. She was short and loved her pet poodle and missed her grown daughters, who lived a few hours away. When her girls were little they were like sisters to my mother, who was an only child. "Katherine and Connie and Car-o-lyn, Katherine and Connie and Car-o-lyn" they would sing over and over again. An only child, it was up to my mother to do the dishes, which she hated. She never minded when Katherine and Connie were there, though.

The three amigos.

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When Jason and I got married, I was so excited that I forgot to be nervous. I forgot, that is, until the bridesmaids were assembled up front and the music swelled and my sister-in-law whispered "Go!" I shook from head to toe all the way down the aisle. I felt silly. I have never been one for shaking-- more like flinging myself headlong into the next sure thing. I was sure about Jason, but the moment made me afraid. This was huge, enormous. But then I began to hear small little sobs from behind my left shoulder. They advanced into choked wails as we said our vows. Strangely enough, focusing on that crying drew me out of myself enough that I could breathe. And then-- kissing and Beethoven and miles and miles of hugging happy people. It was days after the honeymoon until I remembered to ask my mother.

"Who was it? Who was crying that whole entire time?"

"That was Aunt Mary," my mother said. "She was overcome."

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Heavenly Father, bless your servant Mary Carter. Bless her grieving husband and all of her spread out, grieving family. Bless the space she leaves behind-- a space as quiet as the day is gray.

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Aunt Mary was full of sunshine, so I appreciate these clouds. It's like the weather knows what's missing. Silence, today, makes perfect sense.