The Memory Bubble

It’s a long and stressful trip home, and I hesitate to ask my husband to make a special stop. We’ve been away an entire month, and although our time with children and grandchildren was wonderful, we’re tired and anxious to get home.

I broach the subject tentatively; “I’d like to stop in Maryland to see my aunt.” I know there will be resistance.

Aunt Josie with great-grandchildren

“We’ll see,” my husband responds. I know from childhood requests to my parents, “we’ll see” usually means “not a chance in hell.” I forge ahead with determination, not to be stopped or put off.

“She’s 93, and I don’t know how much longer she’ll be around for me to visit. It’s a good stopping place, and I want to see her while I still can.” He knows I won’t be talked out of this, so he gives in to my request.

I look for a nearby hotel, and we plot our GPS to bring us into Silver Spring. I give her a call that night to tell her we are nearby. She’s excited, but declines our request to treat her to breakfast in the morning. Instead, we agree to visit her the next day at the assisted living facility where she resides. She calls my mother that night to say she thinks company is coming to visit.

“I’m not sure,” she tells Mom, “but I think Josette is coming.” My mother gently corrects her; “I believe it’s Lucia who’s coming, Josie.” My aunt thinks for a minute. “Yes,” she responds, “I think you’re right.”

The next morning, I knock on her door. I notice a shelf outside her apartment where her nativity scene is displayed. It must be at least 70 years old; it's rich in sentiment, and its value is more than money can measure.  The door opens and she peers through the crack. Her face lights up with happiness and a bit of surprise.

“Lucia,” she cries and throws open the door. I step in and bend down to give her a hug. As I take in her appearance, I marvel at how she looks. She’s decked out in a cheerful red sweater adorned with an embroidered Christmas wreath. Her gray hair is carefully coifed, although I’m surprised to see she no longer dyes it. Never a tall woman, she has shrunk to an even smaller stature, and her hands are gnarled and stiff. Still, her spunky personality shines through; it is hard to believe she’s in her nineties. She turns to my husband, who towers over her. He folds himself in half so he can receive her hug.

Uncle Cosmo with Donald



“Come in, sit down.”

I know what comes next.

“Can I get you something? How about a cup of coffee?”

We thank her, but decline.

“Are you sure,” she asks.

Yes, we’re sure; we just want to visit with her. We know the question will arise again and again throughout the conversation.

After the third time, I agree to have a cup of coffee. Pleased, she jumps up to prepare it for me. I follow her into the kitchen, hoping to help. “I’ll give you the special Christmas cup,” she announces as she stands on tiptoe to reach it. I hold my breath as she brings it down to the counter. We heat up what is left in the pot, then return to her living room. She’s happy now.



I want this to be a happy visit, and I know the most treasured conversations are those that recall times past. Since it is the holiday season, it seems a good way to begin, so I prod her. “Remember what fun we had when we all got together for the holidays,” I ask. Her eyes light up and she turns to my husband. “Oh Bob,” she says, “You would have loved the parties we had. We were such a crazy bunch!”

I help her with bits of information, and she is able to round out her stories. I coax her with another memory. “Remember how we had to split into two groups in later years because there was so many of us?”

Gene and Julie's Wedding



She laughs and reminisces about how we overcame the separation. Again, she addresses my husband. “We hated being separated, so we’d play pranks on the each other, even crashing in on one another. One year, we sent our garbage over in a taxi cab! Oh, we were a crazy bunch alright!”

She stops for a moment caught in her own reverie. She looks at me and says, “I live on my memories now. I have good memories, and those are the ones I try to focus on. I have bad memories, for sure, but I ask God to help me forget those memories.” Her eyes travel toward the table beneath the window. Her family pictures reside there, including pictures of her two oldest sons who died within 11 months of each other. It is heart-wrenching to remember the loss of Donald and Gene. My uncle was alive then, and together they buried their children.

Gene, Donald and baby Paul

I take in the other pictures on the table, including the one of her daughter-in-law Julie, who was heartbroken at the loss of her 53-year-old husband.  She died three years after Gene, just months before her own son’s wedding. It was up to my aunt to nurture the two young adults left behind by their parents’ deaths. It was my aunt who traveled to Oklahoma for weddings, births and holidays. I think the loss of their parents was mitigated a bit by their grandmother’s devotion and presence.

She picks up the thread of her conversation, happy to regale my husband with more anecdotes. How many times has the story of how she cared for me as a baby been recounted? Both she and my uncle loved to tell Bob tales of babysitting me while my mother worked. Always a good sport, my husband laughs and tosses back the conversational ball so she can continue her recital.

At one point, she looks at me and says, “You’re Pauline's daughter, right?” A knot rises in my throat at this question, so strange and unexpected; I answer calmly in the affirmative.

“I try to go through the family tree to train my memory. Philip is at the top in your family, right?” she asks.

“No,” I reply. “Always remember, I’m at the top,” I say in a teasing voice. I run down the five children in my family in the order of their birth. She repeats each name, concentrating to remember what I tell her. Again, she gives me that steady look. “Isn’t it awful I don’t know this?”

She sighs. “I’m not at the top of my game any more,” she admits. I can’t travel like I did, and I’m in constant pain. Each morning, I wake up and say ‘darn, I’m still here.’ I’m not complaining; I’ve had 90 wonderful years, but the last three years have been hard. It’s time for me to go now, but I guess God has other plans.”

My eyes start to well up with tears, until the next moment when she complains about the women who are her circle of friends.

“But I’m a lot better off than my girlfriends,” she states with disgust.

It seems they had each received a gift of a plant holder, and it needed assembly. My aunt spent a morning pouring over the instructions until it was completed. When she informed her comrades about it, they complained they couldn’t put it together. “I told them to knuckle down and read the directions,” she says with renewed disgust. “They’re only in their eighties,” she declares. “They can’t even keep up with me when I take my nightly walk,” she adds. My sad tears turn to chuckles as I see the feistiness still there.

It is almost an hour since we arrived. We see her energy flagging, so we prepare our goodbyes. She stands to walk us to the door, a strict family rule to be observed when visitors leave. In times past, she would ride down the elevator with us, waving from the front entrance as we drove away. Today, she waves through the crack in the door, and then quietly closes it before we enter the lift.



Aunt Josie, Uncle Cosmo and their boys Paul, Donald, Gene, Rick



I keep the picture of the tiny, gray-haired lady in the festive red holiday sweater in my mind. It is a mental picture, but firmly entrenched in my brain. I hope she’ll be there when we pass through in April. If she is, I may have to remind her of this day’s visit. I hope she’ll remember me. However, it doesn’t matter if she forgets who I am because I never forget who she is. I’ll remember for both of us.