Requiem aeternam

My Aunt Shirley died earlier this evening. Not unexpected -- she was at home in hospice care, with the promise of no more trips to the hospital for congestive heart failure. She was, I believe, ninety-one years old, almost four years older than her sister, Marilyn, my mother, who will turn 88 in a few weeks.

My cousin Sue called my sister to tell her of Shirley's death, and told her that they'd had a "nice party" this evening. Shirley's sister-in-law and niece had come from Massachusetts to Michigan to stay for a few days. They'd had a family dinner, visited for a while — "visited,"  which is Midwestern for pleasant conversation — and shortly after that, Shirley put her head down and was gone.

Gone! Gone to a heavenly banquet, a heavenly party, a reunion with those who've gone before: her husband, her brother, her son John, who died of cancer two years ago and who she must have missed so much. And maybe Kris, my son, is sitting nearby.  If John is at the heavenly table (and he surely is!) it's a jolly party, with laughter and bemusement and love and silliness. There are tall tales being told by brother Dave, true mostly, with laughter from Ed, the husband and country pastor, who, if they have farm food at heavenly banquets, has brought home more corn on the cob than even ranks and ranks of angels could possibly eat.

Just last night I had thought about writing a blog piece for Shirley this week, remembering her presence in my life, remembering things we shared, good times we had as kids and young mothers and older adults under her roof -- at the old parsonage and at the new house she designed for herself. She wasn't the person who taught me to knit, but she taught me to knit better, and set me up with my first successful project when I was 8 or 9. She laughed and called me a "stomach knitter" because of the way I steadied the right-hand needle against my body. At the time I suspected she thought this was not a good thing, but I've always remembered it, and it's actually the key to whatever relative speed I have as a lifelong knitter.

A small detail. I'm sure Shirley would not even remember.

Shirley did many things beautifully. She had beautiful handwriting, so beautiful it was intimidating. I remember her cutting gladiolas from her garden and arranging them -- for the altar in church, I think. She sent handmade presents to my daughter, Eliza, for her birthdays -- bags and zippered cases that I've appropriated and used for knitting projects. She quilted and collected pitchers (as do I) and arranged colored glass bottles on the windows of her sun porch for the light to shine through in the morning. The house she laid out for herself had spaces for the big pieces of country furniture she owned -- her grandmother's table, the pie safe, the desk from the old church with its towering hutch. And she kept the family stories along with the family furniture.

Shirley was my mother's older sister. So yes, that means she was there to try to fix things, to be the boss, the one in charge, whether that was helpful or not, because that's what oldest sisters do. This could be hard for my mother, and the frustration that ensued could be hard for Shirley. (I speak as the oldest of three sisters, born myself to be in charge!) We both worked on letting go.

There will be lots to remember in the days ahead. Lots to smile about. And so many things that people will remember from Shirley's years as a first grade teacher, as a mother and grandmother, and a quilter and friend, that I, who visited Michigan only once or twice a year, don't even know about. Things to think of and wonder about, knowing some family stories have now passed, along with Shirley.

I'm having my own party as I write this, a glass of decent red wine and the best of the Christmas chocolate. I'll get out my knitting, maybe text my sisters, put my feet up on the ottoman. I'll have a nice visit with all the things and the presence that I remember about Shirley.

Rest eternal grant her, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon her.