You know, my aunt came over the other day.
She wears these really tight sweaters, like she wants to extenuate her curves in the most librarian way possible. Anyway, when she arrived, she kissed my sister and me, hair smelling like lilies, like nothing could ever be wrong in the world; but, when she leaned forward, her sleeve hitched up a bit.
Do you really want to know what I saw?
I saw a scar.
Then another.
And then a third.
For about four months, my aunt as been AWOL—no letters, no phone calls, and definitely no weekly visits. So, just there, in mid-hug, I came to the realization that, when my mom told me “she’s on vacation or something,” there was a brutal truth in her voice: my aunt was broken.
With no tape, no glue.
Shattered.
And, as I watched her lean back, say how much older I looked, the cracks began to show. They patched her up in the crazy house, but I didn’t think she had the strength to hold it all in.
I guess lunacy runs in the family.
