Saying goodbye to my aunt

We returned from our holiday in Northumberland and Scotland and prepared for my aunt’s funeral. She’d reached the age of 100 and had her sons and their families close by for the last forty years, ending her life with a fall and a brief illness. Not the worst way to die.

Her sons, daughters in law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren all mourned her with varying degrees of intensity. My family were sad but practical – she was 100, she’s had a good life and we will miss her.

I didn’t say much, but I know I will miss her for the rest of my life. She was the woman I turned to for advice on everything, openly as a child and then privately when I understood how much that upset my mother. My aunt seemed to take life far less seriously than my mother did. Whenever I made a mistake, my mother would be cross and smug; “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen” and my aunt would say “That’ll teach you!”, with a roar of laughter and somehow sympathising rather than gloating that I’d messed up.

I’m in that odd state where I haven’t cried for her yet, knowing deep down that at 100 years old a person is counting down a very short time to a life’s end. One day, someone will say something that reminds me that my aunt is beyond giving advice, not at the other end of the phone any more when things get tough, and I will cry over the loss of that funny, sassy, practical lady who was my favourite aunt. It was great to meet up with my extended family again – including my father’s relatives on his mother’s side, whom we have rarely met – but you could see in their faces that the older adults knew they had all moved up one in the queue for death. Not an easy thing to face, even in your mid-seventies.

Everyone born, will eventually die. It’s what you do between the two events that matters, and boy, did my aunt pack in the life between her birth and death. The last bit of good advice from her comes from the way she lived; make the most of what life you have, be kind and encouraging as often as you can – leave everyone sad to have lost you and glad to have known you.