This insubstantial pageant

 

On a very lovely Indian summer morning my aunt was sitting in her rocking chair by the window knitting  when a bird flew into the house.  Someone had opened the screen door to sweep out the dust, being too lazy to fetch a dustpan, and then forgot to close it.  We shooed it out after a merry chase, vowing vengeance on whoever had left the door open (it's possible it was me...).

"You know," my aunt said when the bird had flown, "the old folks considered a wild bird flying into the house a very bad sign.  It meant someone was going to die soon."

That afternoon, my aunt collapsed.  We rushed her to the hospital where, despite a series of tests, doctors could not determine what was wrong with her, other than a fever of 104.8.  Four days later she died.  Gone. Just like that. The event was so unexpected, so sudden, so final, that we stood around stunned, unable to say anything.  Her knitting basket still rests on the table by her rocker where she set it down. No one can bring herself to put it away.  It seems as if she has just gone out for a minute and will soon be back.

I miss you, Aunt Donna!  I do miss you so.