Detached

While visiting my parents on my annual run, I spent 5 or 6 days with my Aunt Teresa.

My Aunt Teresa was my primary caretaker until I was age 9. We slept in the same bed. She was the one who would have to get up in the middle of the night when I'd wet my bed (which I think stopped by age 5...) She came to my grandma as an orphan in her teens. She might have been 13, 14. Nobody knows for sure now.

Long story short she married my mother's brother and stayed with the only family she'd known.

For all intents and purposes, she remained a maid to the family. We've remained close and that is an understatement. She will always have a special place in my heart. Irreplaceable.

Aunt Teresa used to be ebullient and loquacious. ALL the time. She probably didn't finish beyond 3rd grade and according to my grandma, was not deemed bright by the nuns running the orphanage. By the time I was in 3rd grade I realized that my aunt's intelligent or intellect did not surpass mine. It was something to grapple with.

But she loved me more than she loved anyone else. Or so it seemed. And I adored her. I loved engaging her in conversation because the adults didn't take her seriously as a peer - that was obvious from early on even to a child.

I gave Aunt Teresa positive feedback whenever I could, on her cooking, for instance. Because no one else seemed to be expressing gratitude toward her. My mother, for one, offered nothing but criticism. Constructive criticism in her view, no doubt.

Aunt Teresa lacked confidence and acted like a timid child most of the time. Over the years, she's learned acceptance and a sense of purpose not at home but within her Catholic community, with volunteer work and more.

After my grandma died, and a few years later, her husband's demise, her religion and work at church was all that she had.

When I say she kept busy, she was almost never home. Well if I was living alone and had no one to come home to, I probably would stay out as much as I could, too. (Unless you are like me; in my case I'd probably still enjoy my own company very much.)

But Aunt Teresa needed people.

When I first saw her again this year and said hi, Aunt Teresa couldn't have been farther from enthusiastic. It was barely a lukewarm hello back.

What?! This is me we are talking about. She's usually stoked to see me.

We spent the next couple of nights sharing a hotel room. She was kind of not there. Kind of in a fog. I had to coax her to come out of her shell. She was quiet.

Quiet. Aunt Teresa! Usually you couldn't shut her up. This is someone who could go on and on, non-stop, easily for an hour, whether or not you are listening.

Even my Dad commented that Aunt Teresa appeared to be... slow.

I wasn't sure if it was age or something else.

The good news was she did want to see me. I kept reaching out to her, making eye contact, asking questions about her. She started out distant, even jolted as I touched her hand. It was jarring to me. I'd ask a question and she'd basically respond with, "Why are you asking?" I didn't know this person before me.

By the 3rd or 4th day she warmed up. I'd complimented her on her new shirt. She liked that. She shared her taste on fashion. She smiled.

She no longer shied away from physical contact. We had a head leaning moment, à la Rainman.

I watched her from afar and she did come across as a bit lost.

The church community had grown demanding and perhaps not as personal (or personable). They asked what Aunt Teresa could do for it, not what it could do for the parish member. Never mind that the woman was now in her 70's, had severe osteoporosis, had fallen and broken bones, had chronic knee joint pain...

My father had asked why Aunt Teresa was not as responsive or receptive as before. I say it was the perfect manifestation of someone who'd been deprived of meaningful human contact, devoid of love. She was displaying classic symptoms of isolation and lack of social stimuli. It was heartbreaking.

On our last day together, Aunt Teresa looked back as we parted ways and, with a big grin, waved goodbye. "Safe travels!" She hollered. I vehemently smiled and waved back.

That was the Aunt Teresa I knew and loved. It'd taken us 6 days to get her back. I am not sure about next year.

Bijou

Recently took my parents on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a first.

I felt a lot of pressure having to plan the whole thing myself. It rained everyday. Things didn't always go as planned. We got lost a few times (well, I got lost - I was the only one with GPS). We were exhausted from the walking and the humidity (me probably more so than the 'rents). At one point, my soaked shoes didn't dry for over 48 hours.

In other words, what you would expect on a trip somewhere you've never been.

During the 3.5 days, many visuals were seared in my brain. Of them, this stands out:

We were at the Flower Dome. It was pitch dark but for the electronic imagery of falling flowers. So... many... flowers, combo ever changing, patterns never quite repeating, never boring. Visitors were encouraged to lie down on the floor to fully take in the effect.

To my pleasant surprise, my mother eschewed her usual prissy self (I expected her to go, "Eew, floor! No! Dirty!") and actually proceeded to get down. Before she did, though, she started capturing the dome with her phone camera.

Her face lit up then, like a child's. All the wonderment that belongs on a child's face, so much amazement, joy and awe. Such a big grin you couldn't wipe off. Sparkle in her eyes. Never had I witnessed this side of my mother and may never again.

In the dim light I reveled in the outline that was her (now) tiny body as she raised her phone to keep recording what was above and around. She never grew tired. She was 80. In stark contrast, my neck was getting sore (among other things).

She was so... at peace. I wasn't used to that.

As we finally exited, my mother exclaimed, "I could stay forever!"

I believed her.