From the time I was small, I knew that I had family – uncles, aunts, cousins – in California. They were the people who peopled my world, although they lived far from us. From time to time, one of my mother’s brothers would visit, and I would hear about my cousins, those strangers who were yet part of the community that made up my life.
Michelle has been in my life forever. When I was five, Uncle Pete and Aunt Athalie and Michelle came to Milwaukee, and now I look again at the photo of Aunt Athalie and Michelle and me on the front lawn of our flat at 1115 West —- Street in Milwaukee. Michelle has her hair covered in a scarf, tied under the chin in the style of teenage girls of the day. I’m happy. I was thrilled, to be in the presence of my cousin Michelle. She was a hero to me.
When I was a teenager, Michelle was already married. For a few years, we were penpals, and I read with interest each letter about her life, so different from mine, in California. In one letter, she told me about the ending of her marriage. She wrote about her life, and I had to conjure up what her life might look like, in that place so far away, a place I had never been.
Now, I’ve lived most of my life in California, and I’ve lived most of my life not far from where Michelle grew up. By a strange turn of events, I was called to be a pastor in the neighborhood in South San Francisco where Michelle had grown up, and at the time when her father, my Uncle Pete, was already suffering from Alzheimer’s. Then, I visited my aunt and uncle from time to time, and for the first time, developed a relationship with Aunt Athalie. She was the aunt who never forgot a birthday, she was the aunt that had sent a care package of Michelle’s well worn clothes to our family from time. As I spent time with Aunt Athalie, I learned about her and her life, separate from my uncle and cousin. One day, she told me the story of where she was on Sunday, December 7, 1941. A young woman, she was getting payroll ready for the Navy Fleet, working alone – in Pearl Harbor. My blustery, extraverted Uncle Pete – who’d fought in three wars – had always commanded the attention of the room when he told stories. Her own story – more dramatic than his – had stayed, quietly, within her.
As the years passed, Michelle settled into her life in Riverside, California, and our connection became birthday cards and Christmas cards with a short note: “Love, Michelle.” Her hand-writing was dramatic, flourishing.
A few years ago, I was at home in the afternoon when the mail arrived. When I opened the box, I found a hand written note from Michelle. On her latest trip to Hawaii – always her home – she and her beloved, Tony, had been married! As soon as I read the letter, I called her. She’d been surprised – and disappointed – that she had not heard from me, that I had not reacted to learning her news. But the mail had been slow, and now, we were connected again. I was happy for her, as I watched and imagined her life from afar.
Three years ago, Michelle called to say she’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. For three years, she bravely battled the disease, working with her excellent doctors to discern the next steps forward. Then, early in September, she was sent home to her little house on Larchwood Place, on hospice. I did not talk to her again. I noticed one day that her Facebook posts had stopped, and a few friends offered sad messages instead. She had posted a photo of the mantle of her home, and on the mantle I can see the birthday card I sent to her this year, her birthday one week before my own.
Last weekend, as Jeff and I were preparing for a short trip to the mountains, and on to Sparks, Nevada, Jeff and Michelle’s beloved, Tony, called. The days were coming to a close now, and Michelle drifted in and out of consciousness. He was tired. Tony had been a stalwart, fierce companion and protector of Michelle in these last days. As I prepared to meet a friend for lunch on September 26, Jeff’s cell phone rang, and Tony spoke the words we all knew would be coming soon: Michelle had died. I went to lunch with my friend, mentioned Michelle’s passing. And that was that.
The memories are here, now. And Michelle is gone.
