Auntie Marion

My Auntie Marion died last week. Her funeral was held today in St. Louis, and my heart and mind have been there too even though my body was stuck in Seattle, over 2000 miles away.

I have been trying for days to think of an eloquent post through which to pay tribute to her, but it becomes too painful to think of what to say and so I become distracted, and it's just easier not to face the fact that she's gone. My words fall flat when compared to the dynamic, three-dimensional person she was.

Auntie Marion was truly one of the most remarkable people I have been privileged to know. She was generous beyond reason, and invariably chose joy and gratitude though her life could have be written up as a heart-breaking tragedy. She was feisty and a little eccentric, and had a funny little cuckoo clock and piano-playing bear in her apartment that was bursting with relics of the life she had lived (she called it her museum). She could tell stories from her life that seemed too outrageous to be true: stories of hunting and fishing with the men decades ago (when it was very taboo); of river boat cruises on the Mississippi; of adventures and a life well-spent; of a real-life Native American princess who was an opera singer.

Auntie Marion lived to be 99, so in many ways she already seemed immortal to me; certainly this is part of why it's hard to believe she is gone. I really cannot fathom how different my life would be without her influence and support. She put me through school; she encouraged my music unfailingly; she loved Orion and the kids hugely. We were not related by blood, but there are bonds stronger than blood.

Tonight I played Rachmaninoff for you, Auntie Marion. I hope it can begin to express how grateful I am for you.

Love you much.