Yesterday—another funeral—my Aunty—there was a picture of her in a booklet, which helps me.

This Aunty—so important to me, but I couldn’t explain why to her closest family—she was a woman with difficulties—and to be told why I think highly of her may help them, but I couldn’t do it yesterday.  The time wasn’t opportune.

It was this Aunty who talked to me about a subject (that had turned out to be taboo)—when no one else in my family could.

I remember it so well—this Aunty talking to me in—one of those gathering-places that family tend to have—it was in Gran’s—everyone else was around—I remember Gran being busy in the kitchen—maybe some of them tactfully slunk away—but people could listen in if they wanted—and this Aunty was just open about it—with me.

I was so grateful—and that gratitude not a humility-thing—it was genuine.


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