There are moments in our lives when we’re left speechless. For some of us, those moments are few and far between. I’m not known for those. I have a reputation for filling the silence. My brothers will tell you that my chatter flows like a stream after a heavy spring rain.
Last week, I encountered one of those rare moments. When I heard that my Aunt Florence, the youngest of Mom’s siblings, had died, I could not voice my feelings. I struggled. And it’s not the first time. A short time ago, my younger cousin Larry lost his battle with cancer. His death hit me like the repeated blow to my stomach that it was. I guess I’m facing the reality that every generation faces sooner or later; our elders are fading, and we’re no longer the younger generation. Our time here is limited, and I’m realizing that it’s much shorter than I ever could’ve imagined.
That very brief time in the limelight is now gone. We now step back and allow our children their time. We encourage them, cheer them, applaud them and know that our lives are reflected in theirs. But we can’t forget those still with us who share our histories or who led the way for us. While they are here, we need to say the things we need to say to them and to allow them to tell us their stories.
At times it’s difficult for us to say what we truly feel for each other, about each other or about past history. Our conversations become stilted and awkward when we get too close to our truths. Maybe it’s a “Boomer” thing, but we’ve never been fluent in relationship conversations. So many of us were taught to be tough, to “keep a stiff upper lip,” and to keep our personal business quiet. I don’t remember very many in-depth talks with my parents when I was living at home. And my siblings and I always had those, “Aw shucks, punch-you-on-the-shoulder” expressions to show how we actually liked each other occasionally. We’ve learned how to have those conversations more as we’ve lost the opportunities. Mom and Dad are no longer here.
I believe that is why Aunt Florence made such an impact on me. She was one of the few people of her generation I knew who could say just what she thought. She wouldn’t gently issue platitudes at distressing situations. She allowed herself to throw her words at a target to hit the intended mark as needed. And she would choose more colorful words to create more vivid memories of the exchange.
I can still hear her voice coming from Grandpa and Grandma’s kitchen when she was telling a story to her siblings. We kids would hear an occasional “hell’s bell’s” in her distinctive tone as we ran past the open windows. And the laughter would follow.
In recent years, as she fought through living with Parkinson’s disease and then cancer, she would tell us how she felt, whether we asked or not. And that was ok. She needed to let us know how painful it was. We can only hope that telling us helped lessen the impact on her.
During one of our last phone conversations, she told me that Covid was going through her assisted living place like wildfire again. She didn’t need to tell me she was worried, for I don’t think she was. She knew that whatever caused her demise would just be what it was. She hated the pain and the loneliness she was feeling, and she didn’t mince words about that. But she did tell me—and I know she told other nieces and nephews—just how much we meant to her and that our small gestures touched her heart. And she’d use that most important of 4-letter words before she’d bid me goodbye. Love.
When I heard the news last week that she was gone, a few other 4-letter words first came to my mind. Because that is what I was able to voice at that moment.
But now that I’ve had some time to reflect about it, I find that the L-word is the most powerful of all of them. It overrides them all. She has left us with that word, to spread it amongst us and to use it as much as needed. So let’s all make sure we show and tell each other just how we feel, in honor of Florence. Don’t hold back. Don’t wait. Don’t stifle yourself. Tell your loved ones they are loved. Tell your friends what they mean to you. And even tell your siblings who may have teased you yesterday that you couldn’t face a day without them.
If we can’t say it eloquently or smoothly, that’s okay. But let’s try to say those things to one another anyway.
If it helps, perhaps we can channel a little Florence, as we exclaim, “I love you, damn it!”
