Remembering Auntie Lee: A Life Woven with Love and Selflessness

Some people are a chapter in your life, some are woven into a few different chapters, but my Auntie Lee, she was an entire book that I'm so blessed to have on my shelf. Her birthday was last week, on the 14th, and while she's no longer here to hug, call, or laugh with, she's everywhere in my daily life, simply woven into the fabric of who I am.

I grew up in the glow of her presence. She's my Grandma's sister, and my dad's Godmother, but she was so much more than just "family" to me. She was my anchor, the person I called when I didn't know who else to talk to or I got bored, my best friend that I could always bet was going to say more inappropriate things in public than I was going to, and she was going to get away with it! She was the kind of person who could walk into a room and either make it the calmest room in the world, or the most hectic, and I loved that about her so much. Auntie Lee wasn't afraid to be every part of herself that there was to be, even though she was afraid of quite literally everything else.

My Auntie Lee taught me so many things, but two of the biggest things that she instilled in me was my cooking and my crochet knowledge. I remember staying over at her house for every spring and winter break, and we would sit up until the 10:00 pm showing of the "Andy Griffith Show" (or "Opie" as we called it, don't forget the whistling!!) or "All In the Family" (A.k.a. "ARCHIE BUNKER!" as loud as we could). I don't think she ever told my parents that we were up until 10pm eating ice cream and watching old people tv shows, but we were both awake "before the cows came home" (her alarm went off at 4 am every day?) so I don't think they really minded all that much. We would learn how to make new recipes together that we'd dream up in her kitchen and throw everything into a pan and see what happened. I still haven't made a better stir fry than the one that I made when I was 6 at her house. I have her old recipes now, most saved in a book from my childhood that she and I sat and typed on her typewriter one summer. I hid it from my family all of these years, but I'm excited to use the recipes one day again when they won't hurt emotionally as much to have. When we weren't at her house, she would come and stay at ours, staying with us kids to give my parents a break, and that's where we have memories like eating her lasagna in the basement with a tornado in the area. Or La Befana, the Italian Christmas witch that hides presents in your shoes on Epiphany Eve every year. She was the eldest sibling left on my grandma's side, and the eldest in our family, but she had the youngest heart of any woman I've ever met.

She had this way of making everything memorable, whether she knew it or not. Morning coffee (and chocolate milk for me) wasn't just coffee... it was a kitchen light on before dawn, the smell of a toasted english muffin drifting into the back bedroom. Her slippered feet shuffling across her hardwood floors in her little dressing gow, humming some Italian hymn that God and my Nonna could only remember. She always had it out of the same cup, and I had my own chocolate milk cup. For some reason, chocolate milk and coffee haven't tasted the same since at that table.

Even her crochet rhythm stuck with me. I find myself doing her little quirks all the time, which make me smile of course. One of many was that she never cared "how big" or "how many rows" or "how long it took" every single one of us kids got a blanket from her before she passed away. She always wanted to see how many she could get done before she fell asleep again, which was her second favorite hobby for the longest time. She didn't just teach me how to crochet, she taught me how to be patient with my hands, to make mistakes without frustration, you name it.

The thing about losing someone like her is that it's not just about the big moments that hurt. It's the small, ordinary ones. I see her favorite cough drops in the grocery store and suddenly my chest feels heavy and I have to consider buying them just in case she might need them. I'll smell garlic and onions sizzling in olive oil and it'll take me back to sitting in my jammies on the hardwood, playing with Barbie's and singing along to the "Cubo" TV Show that was on. Grief hides in grocery aisles and and recipe books. But, that's also where the love is. And that's why I'll never stop talking about her. She's not just in my memories, she's in my habits, hobbies, my sense of humor, and my idea of what it means to care for someone. She's my coolest and best friend and I miss her dearly.

Peace, Love, and All the above, Ella Marie <3