Even if Aunt Gail did appear out of nowhere after 25 years, gentle as a ghost in the afternoon—I can’t very well ignore the rest of the family.
I have other aunts, after all, and no less noteworthy.
Aunt Lucy is my father’s sister. She spent most of her life in the state mental hospital. Now she lives in a halfway house but she always comes home for the holidays.
Aunt Lucy lost her mind half a century ago, her breasts and teeth more recently, and remains a singularly lovable person, body odor notwithstanding.
Aunt Lucy, who is admittedly a little musty, always wants a kiss, believes in lipstick and hand cream and menthol cigarettes. At holidays she could never sit still very long, she was up circumambulating the Thanksgiving feast, pausing to kiss our cheeks and mutter in our ears. . .
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