My Italian Aunt

My body shakes violently as it erupts unexpectedly.  The tears dribble down my cheeks, my vision blurred by emotion.   She is among the last of my living relatives, my parents’ generation. Her simple invitation to stop by any time to visit literally makes my heart hurt.  It is the grip felt by a grateful heart.  The heart of a little girl who couldn’t wait to see her aunt, her tall, strikingly Italian aunt with dark eyes framed by short dark hair.  Often with a baby on her hip, Aunt Rita twirled around the kitchen with an incomparable energy, offering of a tray of home baked goodies with tea, coffee or lemonade. 

Every few years, her family settled in a new home and there were always a lot of kids, my cousins.  This contrasted the constancy of my life where I lived in the same house, as the youngest child for the longest time, with much older siblings. After hours of adults visiting and children (that included me) hiding or seeking, rolling down a hill or swinging on tree branch, we left with hugs, kisses and gifts. Aunt Rita always had a huge weed-less garden brimming with fresh produce.  We would slowly amble to our car, our arms balancing sacks filled with cucumbers, abundant green leafy swiss chard and  “what in the world to I do with all this zucchini’” zucchini.  When we didn’t leave with produce, we left with homemade cinnamon swirl bread.  The drive home was punctuated by my incessant queries, “When are we going to visit again?” and secret thoughts, considering a long-term life with kids, babies and an Italian aunt.

Long gone are the gardens.  I haven’t seen Aunt Rita for a long time and I only see one of my cousins, infrequently.  How does family drift, like we have? How is it that I must now put on my adult, grown-up persona?  All I want is an afternoon in my canvas sneakers and my side-zipped peddle pushers, my mother gripping the steering wheel, my brother and me sitting in the front bench seat, my hands over   squinting eyes while I try to block the glare of the sun, my sisters  scrambling in the expansive back of our white ‘67 Impala, while we all sing melody, as we go visit Aunt Rita again.