I want to be a good Aunt. The kind of Aunt my Aunt Maureen is to me. I always looked up to my Aunts growing up. Gazing at what kind of woman I could become, a wild, fun-loving drinker who snuck their niece's booze — Aunt Joan used to give us Sea Breezes, vodka, cranberry, and orange juice, at all the big family gatherings, she’d sneak red plastic cups full of the pink stuff to me and cousin Rosemary and then shoo us away before any of the adults could catch her. We loved this secret bond, this trust, this shared thing we had with Aunt Joan, Aunt Joan who laughed loud and smiled big and welcomed them all in.
Aunt Joan is my stepdad’s sister and I don’t know why I took such a liking to her but I did, having sleepovers at her house, writing embarrassingly bad poems for her, ones she had framed and written in calligraphy — I remember being both totally flattered and completely embarrassed when she would show it to everyone at family gatherings. Feeling like an imposter, I was only her step-niece after all, who was I to love her so much? Aunt Joan taught me how to play poker with jujubes, complained about her husband and stepdaughter to me, and told me all the family gossip. She treated me like an adult, or like a kid who got it. And I loved her for it.
I remember braiding Aunt Maureen’s hair in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. At the kitchen table while Grandma overcooked the vegetables. Squishy green beans, tough chicken, Grandma was not a good cook and her children and husband never let her forget it, calling out how underdone things were, how bland, where’s the salt? She laughed good-naturedly, and decades later I get it — she had no choice but to cook, and clearly, she was bitter about it, I imagine her cursing the brussel sprouts, intentionally leaving things in the oven just a little too long — maybe hoping someone else would take over, start making these Sunday suppers. But that was her job, whether she wanted it or not and no one ever took over, they just made jokes about her food.
Aunt Maureen was smart and what I thought of as a business lady at my young age, I remember when she worked at Smith Barney and I would recite the commercial to her at the dinner table, putting on a little show for everyone “Smith Barney we make money the old fashioned way” in a bad rich accent. She had handsome long-term boyfriends that became husbands, smart like her, kind, and warm. They would always give me the best presents, stickers, and books. Aunt Maureen who I lovingly call Aunty M was always a steady force - the undercurrent I needed to my tumultuous home life that felt ever-changing. It was her I called when I got my first real job offer, her I would ask how to negotiate for more money, how much vacation time should I get? Determined to raise her kids in New York, unlike my Dad who couldn’t wait to escape the city for the suburbs. Aunt Maureen knew New York taught her well and she wanted her girls to be city-smart too.
Aunt Pee has twinkly eyes and a bright laugh, she listens like everything you are saying is actually interesting and is quick with a well-timed joke. I hear my Great Aunt Cecelia’s laugh buried in hers. I remember watching her tease her hair miles high in the tiny tiled bathroom in Bay Ridge. She was cool, always going to heavy metal concerts and bringing her cute boyfriends to Sunday dinners. I’d wear black eyeliner like her as soon as I was old enough.
I want to be like all of them, I want my niece to call me when she’s in her 40s to talk to me about something because she knows I’ll listen and give good advice, I want to be a safe place for her, a home if she needs another one, a blanket she can wrap around herself whenever she’s cold. And then I’ll teach her how to be a good aunt too, to be that steady force, that non-judgmental but I’d give my blood for you in a heartbeat kind of presence in someone’s life. Maybe not a constant shadow but always there when you need it. Like all my Auntys, woven in my skin, there under the surface showing up in every room, I walk into. I want to be that kind of Aunt.
That kind of Aunt