She Would Never Let Us Say “Good-bye”…

And so exits one of the most beautiful beings in my life. My Aunt Rosie.

Rose Craig died on June 27, 2014. She was 97 years old. You may picture an old lady when I say those numbers, but only chronologically was that so. My Aunt Rose was ageless. A second mother to my sister, Laura, and me. A friend to the whole world so it seemed. Beautiful her entire life. Taking pride in her smooth, lineless features way into her final days and never without her makeup on, hair coiffed, nails polished, and in her younger days wearing gorgeous turquoise jewelry, waves of fiery reddish-auburn locks and shimmery blouses showing lots of cleavage. She was quite a looker. For me she always will be remembered having soft clouds of silvery white hair crowning her radiant smile. Hungarian-passionate, she took nothing in stride or lightly. Everything was just this side of drama times twelve—whether it was sorrow or joy amplified to the nth degree.

Just calling her on the phone was like a shot of happy-juice. In seconds you’d be showered with this joyful voice somewhere in the vicinity of Gypsy Rose Lee and Lucille Ball, “HELLO, DARLING!!!!!” And just like that you’d forget whatever pathos was leveling you at the time. Aunt Rose had that effect on absolutely everyone.

She was the everything to all of us in our very large extended family—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, great nieces and great nephews, sons and sisters-in-law, siblings, our spouses, ex-spouses, in-laws, and children—all were welcomed and tucked under her wings forever; friend to everyone who ever knew and loved her. My mother, Lilly, is the last of all the sisters and brother. Aunt Rose and my mother were twins of the heart. She was Rose’s “…baby sister, my little Lilly.” She was forever like a mother to my mother. Inseparable kindred spirits who talked on the phone daily, their greatest sorrow was the physical separation having to live in faraway places from each other.

We loved to hear her stories about her youth and the perspectives she had of each of our parents. She was such an animated storyteller—so excited one moment, deeply moved to tears the next. Her life was fraught with angst—an emotional, roller-coaster and convoluted childhood that echoed into her later years and relationships. Many scenarios didn’t turn out the way she wished them to be. Sadness and disappointment haunted her. And yet there was still a mix of much laughter and creativity—an amalgam of past poverty and pain and present joy too. Her siblings (at one time there were six altogether) buoyed each other through tenuous times that kept them embraced like a little island against life’s cruel tides. Each of us children felt like the outsiders looking into that island that would only disperse with the passings of each one by one.

Rose was a gifted artist. Most of the family has sketches, paintings, charcoals, watercolor works of hers from different artistic phases of her life. We cherish these originals remembering the beautiful lady who created them.

And Rose kept alive her Hungarian language, remembering the phrases, nuances, targeted words our grandmother used to say—the memory of them and our beloved Gizella crystal clear in Rose’s sharp mind. She remembered everything of her childhood; the names of long-lost relatives and neighbors and friends of friends. If you showed her an ancient photo of some obscure relative–whether from Budapest or Bakersfield she’d know who it was.

She loved to read and never missed a crossword puzzle day—just like my mother. She prided herself in being active—loving Trivial Pursuit, writing and keeping detailed journals of her life that are now family legacies.  She loved people and they loved her.  Oh how that lady was loved!!!!

She read each of our tarot cards and had a bit of the psychic about her. I was always coming to or calling her with longings to know what was going to happen to me and somehow she, above anybody else, zeroed in on just the thing I needed to hear. And she said it with such conviction and passion that you believed that it was absolutely so and only good was about to happen. “Just wait, Kitten. It will, I promise you.”

She had the bawdiest sense of humor. Nobody loved to laugh more than that lady. If you had a really raunchy joke you had to share it with Aunt Rose and then be prepared for her to top it with one even more hilarious. I can hear her laughter now.

Almost every single year of my life until only the last few years as her health began to fail, she never missed one birthday of mine—nor of any of her huge tribe. We all received these splendid cards signed with her inspiring words written in lovely cursive, with a few dollars or sometimes a check tucked inside. A birthday wasn’t a birthday without Aunt Rose anointing it in our honor.

And now? The laughter has stopped. As did that long-ago cuckoo clock I loved so much in her home with its solemn hourly chime signaling time passing. And the rich, Hungarian smells of something incredible cooking in her kitchen. And her knitted Afghans brilliantly gracing every couch. And the tables lined with family and friends forever eating and laughing together; babies being passed from one to another; stories shared; hugs exchanged.  And her hallways filled from ceiling to floor of framed photographs of generations of us all. Everyone had a place and face in her Wall of Fame. In her resident care facility her little apartment was a scaled-down version of her past home—a wealth of paintings and photographs and stacks of cards and curios and pillows. So many of us cuddled with her on her couches, or sat at her tables and cried and laughed and ate good food, including chocolate, her favorite of all vices.

We bore our souls to her and she listened and wiped our tears and for a moment we felt safe from all harm. Some of us lived with her temporarily until we could get our footing again. Some just needed an Aunt Rose-fix whether that was in person or over the phone. She was a succor to our souls. No matter where she was or how you connected with her, you would instantly slip into the safe haven and comfort of her and were instantly at home. And how she loved to sing! Hungarian lullabyes.  And that duet she sang with her baby sister, “I’ll Be Loving You Always,” my mother’s signature melody.

Every one of us has a favorite Aunt Rose story to tell. Cousin Vicki has some hysterical stories about Aunt Rose even in those waning moments of her life. She was inherently funny, i.e. opening her eyes and saying, “Have they buried me yet?” Or when Vicki told Rose that she was talking in her sleep and Rose said, “Stop eaves-dropping!”  I can’t wait to hear all of the stories everyone has about her. I know we will laugh a lot in the telling. Because she made us so happy. Because she made us feel special and remembered and loved.  And because each of us who knew and loved her carry part of her in our own souls forever. She lives on within us all.

But she would never let us say “Good-bye.” That was somehow too final. How very right she was. No, I never will never say “Good-bye,” to you, my precious Aunt Rosie.

“So long…” Until we meet again.

(From Cara, with love forever)