The Letter I Never Wrote

A draft of this blog post has been sitting in my unpublished queue for many years now. You'll see that the book I start the post with is one I read in 2020. This post is about the death of my mother's oldest sister, my Aunt Almeda.  

I noticed that death, grief, and illness were themes in some of my reading in 2023. I read John Gunther's Death Be Not Proud, Laurel Braitman's What Looks Like Bravery, Elizabeth Alexander's The Light of the World, Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, and Suleika Jaouad's Between Two Kingdoms.  

Recently I've found a lot of creative inspiration from Suleika Jaouad. There is a documentary on Netflix right now called American Symphony and she recently did a nearly 2-hour-long interview with Rich Roll for his podcast. I would strongly recommend both, as well as her book. 

I got the feeling that now might be the time to complete this post. So, here it is.  

***

The last book I read in 2020 was Bronnie Ware's book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. Having spent years working in hospice care, she found that her patients had these five common regrets:

- I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me

- I wish I hadn't worked so hard

- I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings

- I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends

- I wish I had let myself be happier

But I wonder.  

What about the regrets of the living?  

I do not live a regret-riddled life but there is one regret that still occasionally surfaces nearly ten years later. It is a regret about a letter that I never wrote.

My mother is the third of four children. She has an older sister, an older brother, and a younger sister.  Her older sister is my Aunt Almeda. My Aunt Almeda was a complicated woman. A life-long spinster. An old crone you might say. I always felt like she lived with a lot of regret, disappointment, and unhappiness. Life hadn't turned out the way she wanted. She wasn't good with money. Had many health ailments. Kept a cluttered home. However, while she could be difficult, I loved her and I know she loved me.    

In late Spring 2014 it was clear that Almeda's health was deteriorating and that she'd most likely die in the coming months. My mom suggested that we---her, my brother and I---all send Almeda letters. In the letters we'd tell Almeda what she meant to us and share favorite memories. It was a good idea. A wonderful, thoughtful thing to do. Regardless, I never did it. 

I don't recall exactly why. I'm a writer. I send cards and letters. It's a natural thing for me to do. Why didn't I write that letter? I look back at one of the last e-mails I sent Almeda in April 2014. In the email I'm giving her an update. We're leaving soon for a church trip to Israel. We're working on our property - pulling in electricity, drilling the well, and cutting in the road. Things are going well in my life and we're busy.   

Upon our return from Israel, we came home to the devastating news that the wife of a close family friend killed herself. Then, soon after, Tom's niece's husband killed himself too. Did these unexpected, violent deaths stun me into inaction? I'm not sure. It seems like an excuse to say so. Could I not face the imminent, even expected, death that would soon strike my small, immediate family? Why didn't I write the letter? My aunt was dying and I did nothing. 

And honestly, there was no expectation for me to do anything. I wasn't expected to get on a plane and fly to Florida. As a military brat, I never lived near family and I usually was not physically there for deaths and even, sometimes, funerals. No one expected me at the bedside and there would be no funeral.

Even though Almeda has now been gone for nearly a decade, I think of her regularly. I wish I could tell her that. I wish I could tell her that we still have a few of the embroidered items that she gave us as a wedding gift 20 years ago. I wear the aprons and use the hot pads that she made. I have some of her reusable Publix shopping bags in the back of my car.  

When she was working in Memphis as a traveling medical coder, she drove up to Missouri several times to visit me when I was just starting my civilian career with the Department of Army. During those visits we perfected the chocolate chip cookie. 

Almeda was a talented seamstress and got a form made to my measurements. She called it Nicolette. I wore the skirts and tops she made me in the early years of my career. She introduced me to the smooth combo of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey and Coke. My mom can attest that I drank my fair share of that duo in college.  

Almeda drove to Alabama for my high school graduation. She was at my wedding to Tom. She sent care packages to Iraq during my second deployment so that I could give them to Soldiers. I remember dashing out of our headquarters building one afternoon when I saw that there was a convoy parked outside of our building.  

She had a beloved Shih Tzu named Big Al and several cats. She liked classic rock music and I think of her whenever I hear Tom Petty.    

I wish I'd told her these things.  

Another book I read in 2020 was Joy Harjo's book Crazy Brave: A Memoir. I was really struck by this description and wrote it in one of my journals: "When Sun leaves at dusk, it makes a doorway. We have access to ancestors, to eternity. Breathe out. Ask for forgiveness. Let all hurts and failures go. Let them go."

I publish this post as this day draws to an end. When I was walking the dogs after dinner, I looked at the sunset and thought about the idea of gaining access to our ancestors through that slim veil. I have many ancestors on the other side now. My maternal and paternal grandparents, my Aunt Almeda, and most recently, my Uncle Paul. Both of Tom's parents are there too.   

And so there I stood at the doorway of the setting sun in search of Almeda. I wish to tell her all these things I have written here. I hope she has found peace and let go of the things in life that disappointed her. 

I would say, "I think of you often. I miss you and I love you." 

Today's sunset