Aunt Dotty and her family live in Connecticut and I have spent most of my life below the Mason Dixon line, so our paths have not crossed with any sort of regularity. While many people have left indelible impressions on me because of their nearness and consistent presence in my life, Aunt Dotty leaves a sparkle and smile in my heart that occasionally surface with a cheerful sound of music from inside me.
Truth be told, I don't even know if Aunt Dotty is musical. I'd like to think that all of Grandpa's children inherited at least a smidgen of virtuoso from his wide range of abilities. What I do know is that Aunt Dotty's eyes sparkle like the light on the strings of a guitar in sunshine and that her rosy cheeks remind me of an opera singer and her smile seems to sing on its own. She is bubbly, a great conversationalist, and a ray of light in the Ficker family. I remember sitting on the screened in porch at our old house in Maryland, gnawing on corn and grilled chicken and sweet blueberry muffins while Aunt Dotty sat at our table and updated us on the goings on of herself and her boys: Uncle Richie, Ben, and Andy. These characters that she spoke of made me smile shyly; my older male cousins always intimidated me and incited a spark of adrenaline to either imitate them or flee from them depending on the occasion. I especially loved hearing the stories about Andy's budding chef's career, and was grateful for Aunt Dotty's willingness to stop through town and visit a while.
That, however, was several years before she experienced life's greatest loss. Ben, her eldest, died after a lifelong battle against diabetes at the age of twenty seven. In the same cluster of the hours that constitute a day to most families we lost Grandma, the sweet and gentle soul that had always moored the family to peace and closeness. Those mere twenty four hours wiped out a lifetime, and then another, and Aunt Dotty was left in the cold wreckage of searing loss.
When my wedding day arrived less than a year later I didn't presume to think Aunt Dotty, Uncle Richie, and Andy would come. In fact, I assumed they wouldn't. I barely wanted them to come, knowing that my happiest day would incite so much emotion and the celebration of it would feel like salt to their open wound. How could they watch us celebrate in the same season of their searing loss?
They came. They sat front and center during the reception, and my cousin Andy even came up to me with a huge smile and a fierce hug to say, "Congratulations, cuz." The same rosiness that had always dotted Aunt Dotty's cheeks dotted his. Her warm loyalty, her determined love for family, and her cozy embrace emanated through Andy's arms and features as I hugged him back. I wanted to say something, some small message to share with his parents that I understood what it took to come here (though of course how could I understand) and was grateful, so grateful. That was not what they came for, however, not for more sympathy or for mourning or for gratitude. Aunt Dotty came, she came and brought her men, to celebrate my moment of newness and beauty and commitment. And she came beautifully committed herself, to our family and to my new one, the newness of her loss not inhibiting her from raising her glass to love me.
It's been many years since Aunt Dotty sat down with me over corn and fresh sliced tomatoes, but I won't forget what it took to come visit us, to waylay her travels for a night of shared stories and reconnecting. No matter how many years go by from the day of my wedding, I will never forget the road she took to be there and share in my new story. I am her niece, and I am proud to be so.
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