Farewell Auntie Carol

This is the first day in the world, or any world I know, without Auntie Carol. I wouldn’t think I could even write something about this except that Rory and Mom both posted something on Facebook yesterday with the news, and if they can say something, so can I. I think the hesitation is that it feels impossible to sum up something so monumental. How do you explain the life and importance of someone you love?

Auntie Carol is my godmother. Auntie Carol is Mom’s best friend since middle school. Auntie Carol is the Wallace mirror to my mom’s Wallace, the two tall girls in cat glasses and starched underwear, respectively. The two girls who went on to Vassar and Pomona, who went on to become a therapist and a journalist, and most importantly, the two who went on to become mothers.

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Auntie Carol is such a presence. I love her hands, adorned with her wide gold wedding band and often a gold Irish ring and a pinkie ring on the other hand, and the way they moved so expressively and warmly. I held her hand in the hospital Friday evening and it warmed mine. Isn’t that the way with mothers? Even when you try to comfort them, they end up comforting you somehow.

In my mind, our mothers, Megan’s, Rory’s and Patrick’s and Robin’s, Hugh’s and mine, would be our ballasts forever because they always have been. Auntie Carol left me a message exactly a week before she died to wish me happy birthday. She sang to me, the way she has since I was a baby. The way she sang when Robin was on tricycle, Patrick was a blond baby, Hugh was in striped knee socks, Megan and I were sneaking out, and Rory was starting to shine in theater. Our mothers have always been there and always will, at least in my mind.

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Some things I love and admire about Auntie Carol: She had great hair and her lipstick shade was always the right one. She was a fan of photos of her loved one and we were all plastered all over her walls, fridge and dresser tops. She had no compunction about going to bed an hour or three earlier than everyone else to read her books. She read all the time. She loved walks and we had good talks on walks, whether at Bethany, the Outer Banks, PLP (going to the library usually) or Deep Creek Lake. She loved beaches, per the previous sentence. She held no punches when it came to stating her opinion, but she was also gentle when she knew someone needed support. She kept things simple and she planned ahead; a pre-made lasagna was usually our first meal at PLP. She understood the power of conversation, phone calls, laughter and love. Even though she was no fan of computers, she persevered to use zoom. She was not religious but she liked the Evensong services by the main dock at PLP. She always got us beach treats. It’s the little things that matter, her actions always said.

She loved us. She understood our idiosyncrasies, and kept things real. She loved all of my family even after we changed shape. That was a true gift to me as a child caught in fluid worlds. Love is like water, it’s fluid too.

She also taught me an important message about managing life: Take one stressor at a time. Pick one to face and eliminate the rest. She helped me understand this during a difficult time in grad school, and I still frame my living this way. It is so helpful to give myself permission to let go the multiple worries to focus on one, which makes space to do that one well.

Her leaving is a shock that will take time to absorb and I suspect it will come in waves, just like her beautiful oceans. There will be periods of calm waters and then a memory, a realization, a wave that will crash and maybe tumble us. Uncle Sean, in a hug from Dad, said, “It was a good life,” and it was, but so much more of it was expected. KO, beloved mother, wife, friend, sister, daughter and godmother will be with us in the journey as we stay behind, coping a little better because of all she’s taught and given us.

I have to go, I need to call my mother and tell her that Megan just found a photo of the two of them as bride and bridesmaid in KO’s jewelry box. Love is treasure.