Aunt Nancy’s house was one of my absolute favorite places to go as a kid. She had twenty-six cats at one point in my childhood. I don’t know how I remember that number exactly, but it’s the number that’s always stuck with me. Anyone that knows me is familiar with my love of cats, and it was the same for me as a child. So a trip to Aunt Nancy’s was a magical, feline-filled adventure where I could snuggle and play with kitties to my heart’s content.

Her home was beautiful and creative and filled with love. My cousins, Katy and Palmer, were the two of her children closest to me in age, and we had many adventures together at their house. Whether it was running around in the backyard, climbing on top of the playhouse to avoid their goat, or rolling down the giant hill they had back there, there was never a dull moment.

We also played in their basement where my uncle stored lots of cardboard boxes of products he sold for the company he worked for at the time. We built fortresses and castles out of these, and the pretend play went on for days. It was awesome.

Katy and I would play with her extensive collection of Barbie’s, setting them up in high-rise apartment buildings that we created from Aunt Nancy’s bookcases in the living room. The entire house became our playground.

Aunt Nancy would let us be creative and silly and wild, and I loved her for it. I can still hear her laughter.

As a child, I only knew that she worked with cats. I suppose I thought she worked at the shelter, and that was where she found an endless supply of my favorite creatures on Earth. I knew even then what a huge heart Aunt Nancy had. Many of her cats had special needs, and she gave them a home and loved them, and I loved her for that, too.

My two favorites of her cats were special need cases.

Cinderella was a long-haired white cat. Her lower jaw wasn’t connected correctly. I don’t know if her jaw had been broken or she’d just been born that way. I remember that it went sideways, and she drooled, and her tongue stuck out a little. She was so sweet, and I thought she was beautiful.

My other favorite was Bumper. He was a tabby who was the wobbliest cat I’d ever seen. He had a medical condition that caused him to shake and sway and struggle to walk without falling down or running into things. He never let it get him down, and he ran around playing with the other cats just fine. To me, he was magnificent.

I remember one time Aunt Nancy took me shopping for an outfit. I was maybe eleven or twelve years old and just entering the awkward phase of girlhood. She knew somehow that I needed a lift in confidence, so she took Katy and me to the mall. She made that outing just about me. She and Katy helped me pick out clothes to try on, and I felt like the most glamourous girl ever. I didn’t go with any of their suggestions. Instead, I eventually settled on this weird blouse with different colored stripes and oddly-placed buttons. It was the 1980’s after all.

Later, after we got home, I remember Aunt Nancy telling Dad, “Jill certainly knows what she likes.” She said it in such a way that made me feel proud, like I’d impressed her. I looked up to her because I thought she was so fashionable and smart, and thinking back on it all now, I love how she boosted me up when I so desperately needed it.

As I got older, my trips to Aunt Nancy’s house got fewer and farther between. We lived in different states, but we’d see each other at family gatherings and holidays. There were conversations, music, and laughter shared.

One of the last conversations that I remember having with her at her house was when I was an older teenager. I’m fifty-three now, so I guess it’s okay to confess that the cousins and I had been drinking that evening after our Thanksgiving get-together. We came back to her house, and I was settling in to the room I would be sleeping in.

Aunt Nancy came in to sit with me a while. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about that night. The alcohol and the long years since that time have erased our conversation. However, I remember this: she smiled and was kind. She laughed and talked with me like an adult. She never let on that she knew I’d been drinking. But she did let me know that she loved me.

I’m so sad today. I’m sad because Aunt Nancy passed away yesterday.

I’m sad because I never told her all these things. How much I admired her. How much I looked up to her and wanted to be like her. How much I missed her.

My family grew apart. Or maybe I did. After my grandparents passed away, we all drifted. The cousins grew up and had families of their own. My dad and Aunt Nancy stayed in touch, but I didn’t.

I told my friends today that I lost one of my favorite aunts, and my friend wrote me this:

“I learned years ago the best way to help with grief is to intentionally adopt a trait of the person you loved and missed and carry it into the world as a memory of how they made a difference and how we being here can still make that difference. Jill, you started early before she passed. I’m so sorry for your pain, and you are already being a light for cats everywhere.”

I can’t go back in time and decide to stay in touch. I can’t go back and tell Aunt Nancy all the things I loved about her and all the ways she made a difference in my life. But I can keep taking care of cats and helping organizations that foster and care for them. I can use my voice, however quiet it may be, to speak up for them.

I can also encourage you to let the people you love know that you love them. There’s a saying I think about often: The days are long, but the years are short. Let’s not let the years get by us so quickly that we don’t stay in touch with the people we care about.

So, let me tell you about my Aunt Nancy. She was amazing and vibrant, smart and compassionate, and I loved her.