Dear Lily,

I miss you so much.  When Rasheeda comes in with the mail and walks over to me, my heart beats a little faster. I’m lucky. Lots of these old farts don’t get anything from anyone. I’ve got you my dear, and I thank the Good Lord Jesus Christ for that.

 

Speaking of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior, can you believe they make me pray with a bunch Protestants in here? Malarkey, I say, but there isn’t much I can do about it. So I kneel there and I pray anyway. I never thought in a million years I’d be slowly dying in an old age home, praying with Protestants. It’s because this place is on the North Side. If it were on the South Side, my side, we’d have a bunch of good Catholics. They do, however, let a Catholic priest come into the tiny chapel to visit with me and my four fellow micks.

 

“It’s 1995, it’s only right,” Rasheeda says, as if what year it is makes a difference in how we all treat one another.

 

Maybe it does. I don’t know. What I do know is that the year 1995 makes it okay to walk around with long, greasy, green hair and look like you hadn’t bathed in weeks. Please tell that son of yours to take a shower and get a haircut, will you? Even in the papers he looks like a bum. In my day, people didn’t walk around looking like they just rolled out of bed and musicians had to sing songs that made sense. I hate to see the musical talent Ronald inherited from the Kiely side to be wasted on gibberish. But send the heathen my love anyway.

 

Rasheeda’s a really kind nurse. I hope you don’t mind that I left her a little money in my will. She works for peanuts, and even though she wipes their bottoms for them, a couple of geezers call her nasty names. They can’t be paying her enough to put up with that bologna, but she stays anyway when a lesser woman would have quit a long time ago. I know you won’t mind about the money. You’re a good niece. Your mother would be proud of the woman you are today.

 

I apologize for not writing back sooner. My arthritis has been flaring up something fierce and my memories are beginning to fade faster than my doctor thought. But Rasheeda wants me to write to you more often. She wants me to tell you the stories of my youth. She says it would help my brain. I will try my best because I love her, and I love you too. The question is, how much do I tell you?  How much do you want to know?

 

I was trying to figure out where I should begin when I thought about my mother. Did Addie ever tell you about how your grandmother died? It’s a pretty macabre story. Your mother was always so overly protective that I can’t picture her telling you.

 

You see, your grandmother was downright mad. Everyone said it was from having too many children. She would lose her head over the silliest things, and even though I was very young, I can remember that one day we were drawing pictures together. Then the next day, she threw her mug at me because I accidentally spilled her tea. The day after that, she spent the entire day in bed crying. When I told her that I was hungry she said that I was old enough to feed myself. I was four.

 

I worried about our mother until the first day of grade five. I hadn’t thought about her at all that day. I was excited about seeing the classmates that I hadn’t seen all summer. I was also grateful for having a place to retreat where we got a hot lunch five days in a row.

 

It took me a long time to forgive myself for being happy about escaping our mother after a long summer of looking after her. When the school day was over, I had to wait by the flag pole for Kate and Rose so we could walk home together. When they found me, I saw that their foreheads were covered in sweat and their faces were crimson red. Rose was crying and Kate looked scared.

 

“What’s going on?” I asked. Kate’s response was wordless and consisted of yanking my arm and dragging me along as she took off running. Instinctively, I ran with her. Kate let go and was well ahead of us in a matter of seconds. Your Aunt Kate could out run every kid in our neighborhood, even the boys. I still had no idea about what happened, so I stopped until Rose caught up.

 

“WHAT HAPPENED?” I screamed, feeling a mixture of frustration, confusion, and fright.

 

“A fire.” She sounded like she was about to start hyperventilating.

 

I grabbed her hand and pulled her along with me. I simply couldn’t leave your Aunt Rosie behind to fend for herself in such a state.

 

“C’mon Rose. Move it,” I yelled, and she obediently picked up her pace. I still didn’t fully understand what was going on, but I knew it was bad. Really, really bad.  

 

Had I kept my head, I would’ve noticed that there were a good many more people running with us. The crowd got thicker and thicker the closer we got to the row houses. They were just as scared as we were. To me though, it was only Rose and me. Even as we were pushing through the people, I didn’t see them. Our petite frames made it easy to maneuver, usually without having to touch anyone at all. 

 

After what felt like hours of sprinting, we finally got home. We arrived to see the entire block of row houses looking like a bomb had been dropped on them. They looked like the pictures we saw of WWI in school. Our apartment, right in the middle, was completely gone. It was as if our place was ground zero and the damage fanned out, lessening until the book end units were only scorched and charred. Everything had loads of water damage. They all were uninhabitable. There were no winners, but we were the biggest losers.

 

Rasheeda just said it’s time for lunch. Pray the crap they feed me here doesn’t kill me before I can tell you the rest of this story. 

 

With Love,

Aunt Jenna