Aleen Mean

My great aunt, Yvonne, died¹ last night. She was 94, sick, and enrolled in hospice, so it wasn’t unexpected. Still, I’ve spent the day thinking about her.

What’s surprised me the most is that I don’t really have many specific memories of Aunt Yvonne. She was a fixture of my childhood until I was eight or so; I didn’t see her a whole lot after that.

I remember the trailer she had in a retirement community. It was a bright golden yellow and easy to spot from the road. She had a chihuahua that terrified me because I was always warned that the dog disliked kids and might bite me. One day, I spent a few hours with her and watched as a painter coated the walls of her home in a fresh coat of snowy white.

Mostly, I remember how she was kind in a world that is so frequently cruel. At the end of the day, there’s little else that matters.