Aunt Annalee.
Her house is always warm.
The living room glows gold from the decades old lamp in the corner that contrasts nicely with the deep red of the carpet, worn down from years of people walking on it.
(I've sat on that carpet many times, usually working on homework or reading a book I've already read a hundred times.)
Her house smells like chicken and dumplings and chocolate cake, which sounds like it should be disgusting but is in fact heavenly.
(My dad's favorite food is chicken and dumplings, and my little sister and I love her chocolate cake. She always makes it for us when we come over.)
The old brown walls of the living room become stark white when you enter into the brightly lit and tiny, tiny kitchen with a table in the middle that fills up most of the space on its own.
(The white kitchen tiles are like ice beneath bare feet but Aunt Annalee must not mind because I can't recall her ever wearing shoes inside her house.)
The kitchen is cold, but the people in it are warm as we sit around the table and sip sweet tea, the adults exchanging opinions about politics while my sister and I pretend to eat our vegetables.
(Aunt Annalee makes a snarky retort to my Uncle Landon and we all laugh because we know she doesn't mean it.)
Aunt Annalee and Uncle Landon recently hit their fifty year anniversary. There was a big celebration, and both sides of the family all met up together.
Someone asked Aunt Annalee if she'd do it all again, despite the struggles, the arguments, the raising of two children, and all the chaos that has come and gone over the course of fifty years.
"Would you do it all over again?"
I don't think I'll ever forget her answer.
The corners of her lips turned upwards into a smile, a beautiful smile that knew no pain but only joy.
"Yes."
(It was then I knew someday I wanted to love someone like that.)
