When I was a small child, I was very fond of my aunt Candy, one of my mother's two sisters. I thought she was quite cool, the way she would play with us. It wasn't until I got older that I figured out she related to my three-year-old mind so well because she possessed one herself due to cerebal palsy. She delighted in playing with kids her "own age" and had the special type of kind heart that sometimes seems reserved for those who are never able to grow up. One of the hardest parts of my mom's death was for my uncle to explain to Candy that their sister was gone and wouldn't be home for Christmas. She started going through the photo album and pointing to the rest of us and asking whether we were still alive. Despite that, she kept her delight in the season. When we got to Chicago for Christmas brunch, she lit up brighter than the bulbs on the tree, wishing us all a Merry Christmas. I got her one of those Scooby Doo talking books with a microphone and buttons to push for sound effects, and she spent a good part of the morning on at the piano with Ellen singing Christmas carols with a blithe disregard for tempo and tune but an infectious spirit that kept us all from dwelling on the recent tragedy of my mom's death. As always, she couldn't wait for the food, the turkey and pie that she was able to adore without the adult guilt over calories or her somewhat-expanding figure.
This morning, I was informed that Candy suffered heart failure overnight and passed away. I feel rather numb about the whole thing, it was utterly unexpected. We've got a biopsy for my Dad scheduled this week, among other things, and it's a scramble to get plans in order. But most of all I miss her, the one who came to Christmas without any regard for the problems or pains we've all been through. She may have been a handful, but in a way it was her spirit that took care of all of us this year.
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