For the second time in my life, (Dear, Sweet, Jesus!), I learn of the burial of a loved one after the fact. First, Daddy, in 1979. Second, Aunt LaLa, in 2013. Regardless of the thoughtless lack of communication by relatives, my love for these two people remain unchanged.

Aunt LaLa helped me find my way in this world, and I thank her for teaching me how to love. I thank her for treating Mom and my sisters with love. I thank her for giving me the name, “Jeannebird.”

Here’s a bit from my book:

“Hi Aunt LaLa!” I call, opening the screened kitchen door off the little slate porch. She lived there with her parents, and brother, Pippi. My words zip through the house to find their way to her.

“Hello, Pop! How are you doin’ today?” Mom says, then orders us to say “hello” to him, as she follows my sisters and me inside.

“Hello, Grandpa!” Four girls greet him as he turns from the window towards us. His bright, white, wispy hair circles the bald crown of his head as he leans against his gray, wool sweater on the back of his chair, placed there by Aunt LaLa. She takes good care of him. He holds a gnarled, sun-tanned hand up to wave “hello” as Mom sits next to him at the kitchen table. Mom’s high cheeks, squarish jaw line, squarish forehead, big, brown eyes, and sun-tanned skin match her father’s.

Aunt LaLa comes into the kitchen. Her grayish-brown hair is beauty-parlored-curled under, right at the shoulders. A pink, flowery blouse matches the pink lipstick on a smiling mouth, curving gently to show pearly teeth. A gentle twinkle in brown eyes reveals the kindness in her heart.

On this lucky day, Aunt LaLa hands me the big, black, metal scissors that rest in a kitchen drawer.

“Go cut some zinnias, Jeanne,” she says, handing me a basket to hold flowers from Grandpa’s garden. Zinnia bouquets will carry her cheerfulness home.