When my Uncle Charlie brought his future bride to meet the family, she wore a leopard pillbox hat with a matching bag. Stylish, yet understated, Aunt Lucy made an impression on the family, especially on my then-teenaged-father, who for years after, reminded her of that first meeting.
As a child, I remember her remarking on my height, looking upward and saying I was growing like a weed. Many call her Aunt Lucy—including my sixteen cousins on my father’s side alone. She addresses us using our given names. Her son, she calls Daniel; my brother, Joseph; my son, young Joseph. She has a quiet grace and thoughtful manner. She has strength she is unaware of and speaks simple words that carry weight.
Aunt Lucy listens more than she speaks, uttering sounds of acknowledgement with a slow nod of her head. Due to her quiet manner, some might mistake her for naive; but as her son, Danny, noted, “You don’t live 96 years and not know stuff.”
She lives with my cousin Jo Anne and her husband, Vince, near Charleston, South Carolina. Aunt Lucy’s second-floor bedroom has a porch where she often sits to read, pray, and nap. From her vantage point she is able to see a wooden porch swing in the park across the street. Her daughter, Marguerite, said, “For the last five years she has been eyeing the swing on the green.”
Several months ago, Aunt Lucy was in her upstairs bedroom when she suffered a stroke. Jo Anne noticed the signs and immediately called for an ambulance. When the emergency medical team arrived, they discussed how to get a stretcher upstairs. Recognizing the difficulty, one of the team asked how much Aunt Lucy weighed, and as Marguerite describes, “The fireman carried her down the stairs as if she were a young bride.”
She was put on a stretcher and wheeled out of the house and onto the walkway leading to the street. Lying on her back, she was able to see the sky, the trees, and the windows of her neighbors’ house. She spotted two young children looking down at her.
“They looked so sad and frightened,” she said. “I was able to lift my hand and wave to them so they’d know I was okay.” Jo Anne later described the act as “the queen mother waving to her subjects.”
Aunt Lucy’s recovery was long and arduous. Due to COVID-19 she was not allowed visitors; the nurses and doctors became her connection to the outside world through their bedside chats.
“How old are you?” asked one of the nurses.
“I’m 96.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I am,” Aunt Lucy responded.
“You don’t look 96.”
“Look closer.”
The days ahead were difficult, but my aunt worked hard at her physical therapy, hoping she would soon be strong enough to return home. The day finally arrived and she was able to once again be in her own room with her family nearby. Physical therapy continued. She forced herself to eat in order to gain strength. She continued to sit on her porch and look out at the park, and in particular, at the wooden swing.
One day, while her daughter, Marguerite, and granddaughter, Krysta, were visiting, Aunt Lucy said, “I wish to go on the swing.”
Marguerite said, “Come on, Mom. Let’s go.”
The walk was slow—one tiny step at a time—out the front door, across the street, into the park, and onto the paver stones. With help, she was positioned onto the middle of the swing’s wooden planks. Bracing herself by holding onto the arm rests, she gently pushed off with her feet, and began to sway—back and forth. Behind her large black sunglasses, I imagine her eyes closed in the wonder and freedom of the movement. Her smile lit up the space. Dappled sunlight fell upon her striped dress, blue cardigan, pastel pink socks, and soft-soled shoes. On her head she wore a fuchsia wide-brimmed sunhat. I suspect it will be a day remembered with fondness.
Photo credit: Krysta Vidakovich