Visiting My Aunt Polly

     How is that memories expand as if to fill - no create - a universe of their own.  But when I go back, follow the thread that connects me to the important people in those memories I find myself not in a universe sized space but instead the tiny confines of a seniors care home bed.
     After a shameful (to me) absence of years I sought out my Aunt Polly's whereabouts today. I knew she was  in a care home. I got the location from her daughter in law and proceeded to wind my way to the home in the west end of Calgary. (They don't call the west of Calgary "the west end". That's an Edmonton term, I just realized.)  And wind my way indeed. I, of course, didn't follow the directions properly - I always get even the best directions confused. I went past my turn by one too many turns but I've learned if I ask directions often enough I will eventually get there.  My spouse, on the other hand, spends his "asking directions" time up front and has exact directions in hand before getting in the car. I swear he even knows where he's going to park at his destination before he starts the engine.  I have learned to incorporate my "wandering and asking directions" time into my trip. In fact, the wandering time becomes a trip within a trip. Enough on that for now.
     I found Aunt Polly.  As far back as I can remember she was always larger than life to me.  And I loved her. Still love her.  A photo of her sits on her dresser and is proof of her youthful beauty.  She embodied beauty in my child's eye. And she still does.
    I'm close in age to her daughter Valerie. During the weeks I spent with her at Aunt Polly's house on summer and other holidays, I absorbed (unconsciously now, I see) how she filled her space, her home, her life with a strong force.  I felt different in her space.  Like I could be something or someone else that my own regular life didn't have the right soil conditions for.  I don't mean a better life - just a different life. A life that was loud and strong. With likes and dislikes clear cut and out in the open.
    She could yell (or at least talk loudly) and swear but I knew she loved me.  "You little shits", she'd say to us. But the way she said it, I felt loved and included.  No sweet terms of endearment from her.  No that's not true. When I arrived and left she'd hold my face in her hands, kiss me and call me "honey"or "dear". That was it. In between it was "you little shits" or "you little buggars".  She wasn't mad - well, not really mad when she called us that.  She was just being Aunty Polly.
   I have so many memories of her. They play in my mind. I recolor them, touch them up just like Hollywood does with old movies.  I've wanted to tell her about those memories.  I might have left it too long. Or maybe not.
    I don't know if she really knew who I was today. On her daughter in law's advice I talked about people and things from a long time ago. Forty five years ago, in fact.  About summer holidays at Christina Lake when our families would meet there. How us kids would mistake her for my mom and vice versa.  It was always a laugh back then.  How Valerie and I would collect bottles every morning and cash them in at the local hotel bar to raise our pinball and ice cream money for the day.  (I don't know if she ever knew that.)  I told her how I loved being at her house during vacation.  That I remembered her getting us up in the morning (too early for my taste back then) to help her play tv bingo.  (She had so many cards we had to put up card tables to hold them all.)  I told her about Valerie and me going to the Calgary Stampede grounds every day during one summer stay, and staying all day. She sort of laughed and raised her eyes as if to say "You little buggars!"  I told her she was beautiful as always, and I love her.  Always loved her. She smiled her big Aunt Polly smile, her eyes shone and she said she loved me too. She rubbed my hand a little.  We kissed each other on the cheek.
    It wasn't too late to tell her how much I loved her. She understood that.  The other stuff may have faded away too far to retrieve now but she remembers love.
   I teared up when I left her room.  I stopped for a minute in a small side hallway to let the tears do their thing.  My chest hurt. I hurt.  Not sure why.  I think the pain is realizing how quickly this beautiful life passes by. How short the trip is.  One day you're larger than life and one day a while later your life can be contained within a hospital bed.
    As I drove away - meandering my way back to 16th ave - I saw the scene around me as huge and filled with wonderful ordinary things.  The Bow River, a bridge, trees, grass, stores, roads, vehicles, people, sky. ("And I thought to myself, what a wonderful world" -  Louis Armstrong.) My ability to roam about may very well shrink and shrink until I'm confined to a scene made up of bedding, curtains, walls, a few special photos, and medical apparatus. I may not be able to comprehend even that.  In my mind, though, hopefully I'm inhabiting my infinite universe of memories.
    And, my dear lovely Aunty Polly, I hope you are, too.