First Aunt (174 Series: Uncles and Aunts - Part 1)

 

 

 

Mom always says her eldest sister was to tend me when she was out for her job.

I never disbelieved it, but I also failed to fathom my mother working in formal clothes.

Sharee, or a courteous salwar kameez.

I was in my nappies, left with my two cousins, one not too older than me, whilst other old enough to bite my cheeks off.

Of course, I’d be in a string of hysterics over my face being tattered in red indents.

Any child would. And aunt would calm me. Like she did with her own.

Maybe I am her own. Maybe not. It can be pondered over for the rest of my life. But I was never in dearth of affection. It was an act I might have misinterpreted or shrugged off in strangling annoyance. But the stream never stopped.

You never know when you realise the enormity of it. When your entire world is raptured and taped back. Imperfectly, but does what it can.

And it’s not me who could lift a finger to pluck one strip of the tape. She made an effort. She still does. In obscurity, in hushed promises, in her crimp of brows, or the growing lilt of her voice in enervation.

A lot wanting to be said. To be done. To tape the rapture to its faultless form. When we both know it won’t work.

If I don’t, she does. And that’s enough.