I have to take a break from my road trip blogging.
My aunt was murdered last night in Panama. She had a big fancy house in the suburbs, but she was usually in Miami with my cousin and her granddaughter. Yesterday she was shot.
Truth be told, I never much cared for her when I was a kid. She came to stay with us in Brooklyn when I was nine. Naturally, my mom gave her my room. It was cute for a day or so, but by day three I had had quite enough of this disruption to my routine. She had like fifteen suitcases, and she could only drink fresh squeezed orange juice and she wore so much makeup and perfume, even when we weren't going anywhere!
I remember protesting that she wasn't even really my aunt!
"You only have four sisters. And you all have the initial A. This woman's name starts with an I AND I know she's not your sister. What in the name of Encyclopedia Brown kind of "aunt" is this?"
"She's your uncle's wife."
"So? That doesn't make her my aunt. My uncle's my uncle." That airtight reasoning notwithstanding, Aunt Isil stayed for three more weeks. Though I pointedly refused to call her "aunt" anymore. Five years later, my uncle suddenly died of a heart attack and my family rallied to her side, staying with her in that big fancy house in the suburbs.
I've only seen her a handful of times since then, but I'm still a bit in shock that just like that, she's gone.
My uncle's wife. My aunt/