isn’t happening even when it is. Don’t turn on the lights. It’s your own damn fault if you open that door and find the burglar with the kitchen knife.”
“Merge onto NJ Three E.”
“I have ADT, Aunt Feen.”
“There’s no burglar alarm that can keep you from being robbed of the important things. If you’re lucky, you get a dollop of happiness here and there, random moments of unintended joy that land in your lap like an old cat. It feels warm, but remember, it’s just a cat. You won’t be missing much when you’re my age and your brain is fried from dementia and Alzheimer’s.”
“You don’t have dementia or Alzheimer’s.”
“Not yet.”
“You appear to be very intelligent and alert,” Gianluca said.
“That’s because I exercise my mind. I play cards. Word search. Crossword puzzles. I’m a sudoku person.”
“Continue onto Lincoln Tunnel,” the GPS lady said.
Aunt Feen continued, “I try and stay alert so I can feel a tingle when something nice happens. I want to be ready to embrace those moments of bliss, those lucky breaks when the coat comes back from the cleaner and you reach inside the pocket and there’s Nonna’s ring you thought you lost. You can’t remember putting it there and you’re shocked that the bastards at the dry cleaners didn’t steal it, but you got it back so you can’t complain. You think to yourself, Oh, goody. But that’s not the norm. It’s an accident when a happy surprise rises up to meet you. When something you lost was found. When something you dreamed of comes true, and then just as quickly you lose him so you go ahead and marry another numb-nut anyway to ease the pain. You think it’s a balm on a burn, but it only aggravates the wound. Your great-uncle Tony was a horse’s ass and a poor substitute for the love of my life. There it is. The truth.”
“I’m so sorry,” I told her.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. When you get old and the Grim Reaper scratches your back, it feels good and you know it. Nothing but death will relieve you from the disappointments and endless purgatory of this life on earth. Whenever the Lord wants me, I’m ready to go.”
“Dear God.” I cracked the window, suddenly needing air.
Aunt Feen tried to turn around to face me, but the seat belt held her in place like a parachuter before he pulls the cord to jump. “Oh yeah, Val. The golden years are made of tin. Your body, Madonne ! You just wait. Rashes, lumps, migraines, and varicosities. Hair grows in places it shouldn’t and falls out where you need it. Everything shifts, freezes up, and plummets. Last Tuesday my foot was pronated for three hours, and nothing I did would release it. I walked around on one heel for the good part of an afternoon. This morning I woke up on my side and found one of my breasts under my arm. You’ll see.”
“I hope not,” I told her.
“Your home takes a dive too: dust, peeling paint, termites, and mold. Who you are, you can’t remember, who you loved, all dead, where you live gets gamy and smells like canned corn. The world turns from fine silk to burlap overnight. You can’t see, you can’t hear, you remember sex but would rather kill yourself than attempt it because any jostling would snap your brittle skeleton in two like kindling. A moment of release for a lifetime in traction, no thank you. But it doesn’t matter anyway. What you once craved, you no longer desire. It’s all . . . all smoke.”
“You must believe in something beyond this life.” Gianluca looked over at Aunt Feen.
“Not really. Only death awaits me. I’ll wind up on the scrap heap like a broken toy. In the end, whatever remains of me and my contribution to this world will disintegrate in the valley of regret like the bones of a dead dingo. It will just be me, my immortal soul, and the memory of nothing. But I’m happy for your engagement. I’m going to give you money for the wedding, if that’s okay.”
“That’s wonderful, Aunt Feen, thank
“Merge onto NJ Three E.”
“I have ADT, Aunt Feen.”
“There’s no burglar alarm that can keep you from being robbed of the important things. If you’re lucky, you get a dollop of happiness here and there, random moments of unintended joy that land in your lap like an old cat. It feels warm, but remember, it’s just a cat. You won’t be missing much when you’re my age and your brain is fried from dementia and Alzheimer’s.”
“You don’t have dementia or Alzheimer’s.”
“Not yet.”
“You appear to be very intelligent and alert,” Gianluca said.
“That’s because I exercise my mind. I play cards. Word search. Crossword puzzles. I’m a sudoku person.”
“Continue onto Lincoln Tunnel,” the GPS lady said.
Aunt Feen continued, “I try and stay alert so I can feel a tingle when something nice happens. I want to be ready to embrace those moments of bliss, those lucky breaks when the coat comes back from the cleaner and you reach inside the pocket and there’s Nonna’s ring you thought you lost. You can’t remember putting it there and you’re shocked that the bastards at the dry cleaners didn’t steal it, but you got it back so you can’t complain. You think to yourself, Oh, goody. But that’s not the norm. It’s an accident when a happy surprise rises up to meet you. When something you lost was found. When something you dreamed of comes true, and then just as quickly you lose him so you go ahead and marry another numb-nut anyway to ease the pain. You think it’s a balm on a burn, but it only aggravates the wound. Your great-uncle Tony was a horse’s ass and a poor substitute for the love of my life. There it is. The truth.”
“I’m so sorry,” I told her.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. When you get old and the Grim Reaper scratches your back, it feels good and you know it. Nothing but death will relieve you from the disappointments and endless purgatory of this life on earth. Whenever the Lord wants me, I’m ready to go.”
“Dear God.” I cracked the window, suddenly needing air.
Aunt Feen tried to turn around to face me, but the seat belt held her in place like a parachuter before he pulls the cord to jump. “Oh yeah, Val. The golden years are made of tin. Your body, Madonne ! You just wait. Rashes, lumps, migraines, and varicosities. Hair grows in places it shouldn’t and falls out where you need it. Everything shifts, freezes up, and plummets. Last Tuesday my foot was pronated for three hours, and nothing I did would release it. I walked around on one heel for the good part of an afternoon. This morning I woke up on my side and found one of my breasts under my arm. You’ll see.”
“I hope not,” I told her.
“Your home takes a dive too: dust, peeling paint, termites, and mold. Who you are, you can’t remember, who you loved, all dead, where you live gets gamy and smells like canned corn. The world turns from fine silk to burlap overnight. You can’t see, you can’t hear, you remember sex but would rather kill yourself than attempt it because any jostling would snap your brittle skeleton in two like kindling. A moment of release for a lifetime in traction, no thank you. But it doesn’t matter anyway. What you once craved, you no longer desire. It’s all . . . all smoke.”
“You must believe in something beyond this life.” Gianluca looked over at Aunt Feen.
“Not really. Only death awaits me. I’ll wind up on the scrap heap like a broken toy. In the end, whatever remains of me and my contribution to this world will disintegrate in the valley of regret like the bones of a dead dingo. It will just be me, my immortal soul, and the memory of nothing. But I’m happy for your engagement. I’m going to give you money for the wedding, if that’s okay.”
“That’s wonderful, Aunt Feen, thank
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