A year ago this week, my Great Aunt Pat passed away. She was 93 years old. I wrote this reflection in March 2020 while on the Serengeti.
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My first adult interaction with Aunt Pat was when I was 16 years old in 2013. I had just finished my sophomore year of high school, and I was visiting Washington, DC for a two-week summer program at American University. Because of its proximity to her apartment, my mom suggested that I make time to see Aunt Pat during my stay.
I can’t say that I was entirely thrilled by this suggestion at the time. Mind you, I had never had a single solo interaction with this then 85-year-old woman in my life. Sure, she had been to my baptism, sent me money at Christmas time, and frequently remembered to send cards for my birthday, but I was quite sure that I had nothing in common with her other than the fact that we were tangentially related. And I was a teenager — you know how they can be. And if you met me as a teenager — you know how I could be.
But still, I called her. She was cordial with me and I with her, and she suggested that I join her for mass on Sunday, which seemed to be the least awkward outcome. It involved very little talking and having been to mass since I was little, that was something I knew how to do.
I woke up that Sunday morning after obtaining special permission from my program to leave campus and walked to the meeting point we had agreed upon. I spent almost no time waiting before Aunt Pat rolled up in a yellow taxi cab to pick me up. I was a bit bemused, but in I got, and we were on our way.
The thing about that interaction is that there was nothing notable about it. Neither one of us said or did anything profound or memorable. If anything, we were going through the motions. It’s more the fact that we did it at all. It created a foundation — the building blocks — for a four-year relationship.
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In 2015, I was accepted to Georgetown University, also in Washington, DC. A place I would call home for the next four years. In that time, I began to see Aunt Pat more and more regularly. We started out with occasional visits at her apartment — perhaps once a semester. For anyone who kept in contact with Aunt Pat and sought to visit her at all, you know that this could sometimes be a challenge.
She was a private woman. She never wanted to put anyone out and was sometimes difficult to make plans with. She would tell me not to worry about her. That I didn’t need to visit. Sometimes her mail would come with a “no acknowledgment necessary” note. Yet, my mom always encouraged me to keep trying, to push a little bit harder, and to break down that barrier.
And so I did. I insisted that I wanted to see her because it wasn’t a burden to me, and once I was there, she didn’t seem to want me to leave. Our visits became more frequent. Our conversations became longer and deeper. She asked about my coursework and education. She discussed what it was like to be a woman in the workplace with lawsuits and the “Me Too Movement” emerging. She — a lifelong and dedicated member of the Republican Party — opened up about her political views and how they were beginning to shift in the wake of the 2016 Presidential Election. She often had articles from The New York Times and Washington Post clipped from the paper and set aside for our time together, ranging in topics from technology to politics to religion.
When I went abroad during my junior year, I sent her postcards from each of the cities I visited, and when I returned, she wanted to hear about each place and what I did there. She told me about some of the places she had been to as well. She couldn’t wait to hear about the countries that I wanted to go to next. She was one of the most ardent supporters I had to “go” — always followed by a “be careful!”
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My final visit with Aunt Pat was in November 2019. I was passing through DC for just a couple of nights, and I called her from my Uber as I arrived in the city. I asked if I could see her the next night because it was the only time I had available before I left the city for a wedding. She said yes without hesitation, which shocked me. In the past, I typically had to give her a few weekends as options, and then she would get back to me. Looking back, it’s a true testament to how far we had come in our friendship.
In the last 8 years of her life, we had formed as comfortable, genuine, and fond of a relationship as my 16-year-old self ever could have hoped for. She is an illustration to me that it’s never too late to get to know someone. That a 93-year-old can sit across from a 23-year-old at a tiny kitchen table and find more similarities than they do differences. That someone without any children or grandchildren of their own can truly be a grandparent to you because that’s what she was to me.
I’ll be forever grateful that I got to see her that last time. She was a true treat to converse with, better read than my Georgetown peers, and I know that she’s rooting for me, my adventures, and a new president in 2020 all the way from Heaven.
Thank you, Aunt Pat, for your friendship. I’ll never visit DC without thinking of you because you helped make it the home it has been for me. May you Rest In Peace.