The Essayist: Before We Die

[This personal essay imitates the style of Darin Strauss' Half a Life.]

            I shed no tears the day my mother’s great aunt died.

           

            A day or two after the Christmas of 2011, my grandfather had fallen ill. I don’t remember with what. I only remember thinking he’d be fine. He was only in his upper 60s – lower 70s; he’d been in the military – guessing from the pictures I’ve seen – and he exercised practically every day. A couple of days later, my great great aunt was rushed to the hospital. She was about 106 or so. My mother and I were visiting my sister, her husband and three kids in North Carolina when we got the news. The combination of these two emergencies troubled my mother greatly; we returned to New Jersey on New Year’s Eve.

            I was thrilled to go back early. Not because I wanted to visit my grandfather or a woman I had never carried a conversation with in my life while they lay in the hospital. Because it meant I would be able to travel to NYC and partake in New Year’s Eve debauchery with my friends.

            I’ve always seemed to prefer the company of strangers over my family. Not that there’s anything wrong with them; by all standards, they’re upstanding people. I guess part of it is my age. I was born at a weird time. My sister on my mom’s side is thirteen years older than me; my sister on my dad’s side is seven years older than me and lived with her mom in Georgia. The closest relative I have is my cousin who’s three years older but lived in Kalamazoo – yes, Kalamazoo, the one in Michigan – before moving to Miami. There was never anyone to ease me into the family.

            My family has become somewhat quiet, somewhat of a secretive, since my birth as well. From what my sisters have hinted at, there was some sort of drama concerning uncles or something to that effect, but I’ve never been one to pry. I was taught to “stay outta grown folk business.” I just carried that into adulthood like most of the other lessons taught to me.

            During the first week of my second semester, I received a call from my mother. “Aunt Pearl died.” Uh ok.” A week later I received another. “Yeah, it was a nice service. I have a few of the programs saved if you want me to send you one.” No, that’s alright.

            For the past four years, my family members have asked why I never call them. I tell them I don’t like talking on the phone, which is true. But the real reason is that I have nothing to talk about. Sure, I share a good laugh with my mother or sisters when I see them in person, but there’s only so much observational humor you can conduct miles away from each other. In a way, I’m shutting them out of my business, not divulging any information willing, like they did to me as a kid.

Perhaps one day I’ll regret this decision. Secretly, I hope I can find a way to relate to my family so that we can learn from each other. I wonder what their life must have been like, what odd similarities we share. Then I allow myself to become distracted by those immediately around me, leaving my close relationship with relatives as a forgotten dream.