Until We Are Unleashed

Nearly six thousand miles, nine time zones, and five languages away from where Quinn wrestles with gravity, the 91 year old body of her great-great aunt gave way as she slipped from this world last week.

Gertrude Kohler was a stout name for such a petite woman, so she was better known as "Trudy." As she rose to be our family's matriarch, all the while dwarfed by the height of younger generations, we called her "Tante Trudy" (a title reserved for more senior and noteworthy aunts) as an expression of our respect and adoration.

When my grandmother (Trudy's older sister) died unexpectedly leaving four young children motherless, Trudy was yet to be a mother herself. Nonetheless, she offered herself and her home to her nieces and nephew as they matured and needed a balance outside of their father's views to lean upon.

Even if Trudy could not lend the same support had it been her own daughter, her endorsement of my parents' marriage, when no one else would (for it was between two people of incongruent classes), unleashed them from a shadow of family discontent. Trudy's blessing carried over into the next generation, as my sister and I always thought of her sweetly, and were grateful to get a sense of her from our intermittent visits.

Certainly there was much we will never know about Trudy as things are invariably lost in translation, but her quick laugh and serenity keep company with my memories of her. And although Quinn will never know Trudy directly, I will try to share the essence I understood of this tiny blue-eyed woman, with a soft voice, two small dogs, and boundless energy.

It is regrettable that none of us who loved Tante Trudy were present with her when her body let go and she left us for good. A dark fear of mine comes to mind when I think of Trudy in the care of a virtual stranger during life's last significant milestone . . .

Perhaps not a thought to have shared with Jack, I confessed how hard it is to imagine bringing Quinn into this world, being her guardian throughout what I hope to be a long life, and yet to have died myself before I could hold her and comfort her on her journey out of this life. Of course I should perish before Quinn does, as she should live decades beyond me, which is how this world works. Yet, I can't help but feel scared that she too could be alone or without loved ones when she passes.

Then I come to my senses. As a hospice volunteer and even as a firefighter, I've been in the presence of strangers when they succumbed to circumstances or illness. It was not necessary to have known them their whole lives, or even for more than a moment, to have utter compassion and concern for their comfort and well-being.

This sentiment is a form of love that one shares with other beings. I trust Jack and I will lead Quinn to create her own life in which she will have nothing short of that.

For now, it is more important to help guide and shape the little girl we hope becomes an old lady into and through this life while we are all still in it. And so I shift my focus to what Mother Jones put so well: Pray for the dead, and fight like hell for the living!

May peace and the fight for a good life be with you,
An Aging J & Little Miss Quinn