It’s been almost a year since Aunt Val died.
I’m driving with my dad across the San Fernando Valley, on our way to Aunt Val’s house. Though we were all promised that the house would remain in the family, it has been sold, and there are many things to be picked up and moved out. Thankfully, there has been precious little pettiness and bickering within the family about her things so far.
My dad has asked me to help him pick up a china cabinet which belonged to my grandmother, and is intended for my mother.
I wonder why he didn’t ask my younger, stronger brother to help out, but I don’t ask. I’m always happy when my dad asks me to do things with him, so I decide not to push my luck.
We ride mostly in silence, but not uncomfortably. I’m lost in thought, though it won’t occur to me until later that this is the last time I’ll make this drive. This drive that I’ve made since I was in a car seat. I’m thinking about what I could talk to my dad about: baseball? the kids? my family? work? We end up talking about them all, and the drive passes very quickly.
As we drive down Aunt Val’s street, it hits me: this is it. I’ve been asked to help my dad move furniture, but I’m really here to say goodbye to this house that’s been part of my life since I was a child.
A tremendous sadness washes over me as we back into the driveway.
I exchange polite hellos with Aunt Val’s daughter, who is responsible for the selling of the house, and walk inside.
It’s the first time I’ve been there since her death, and the house feels cold and empty. It’s more than just the furniture being gone. It’s her warmth and love that are missing.
Most of the furniture has been moved out, but certain things remain untouched: her bookcase, filled to overflowing with pictures of the family and children’s artwork…some of it mine…still dominates tne side of the living room, the recliners where my great grandparents spent most of the last years of their lives opposite. I remember sitting in my Papa’s chair, while Aunt Val sat next to me, watching Love Boat and Fantasy Island, thrilled that I was staying up past my bedtime, watching shows intended for grownups, putting one over on my parents who would often drop my siblings and me off for the weekend.
I loved those weekends. When we spent time with Aunt Val we were loved. We were the center of the
Universe, and though she was well into her 70s, she would play with us, walk with us to get snacks,
let us stay up late. It was wonderful.
In the living room, the table where Aunt Val would put the artificial tree at Christmas is gone, though it’s footprints still mark the carpet. In my mind, I put it back, fill the space beneath it with gifts, warm the air with the laughter and love of the entire family gathered around it, singing songs and sipping cider.
I blink and the room is empty again. The warm light of memory is replaced with the harsh sunlight of
the fading afternoon. Aunt Val’s dog Missy is nosing at my hand, asking to go outside.
I lead her toward the patio doors. Aunt Val’s dining room table, where the adults would sit at reunions and holiday meals, is still there, covered in paperwork and trash. It’s a little obscene.
When I was little, Aunt Val would always sit at the card table –the kid’s table– with us, and when I was fourteen or so I was moved to the “adult’s table.” The next year I begged to be granted a spot
with her at the kid’s table again.
Missy is impatient. She urges me through the kitchen. I look at the cabinet where my great grandparents kept their Sugar Corn Pops cereal. Regardless of the time of day my brother and sister
and I would arrive at her house, we were always hungry for cereal, and Aunt Val was always happy to
oblige. This cabinet, which I couldn’t even reach, this cabinet which held so many wonders is now empty, and at my eye level. I am sad that my own children will never get to look up at it’s closed door, and proclaim themselves starving with a hunger that can only be cured by a trip to the Honeycomb hideout.
The kitchen counters are littered with dishes and glasses. Notes written in Aunt Val’s handwriting still cling to the refrigerator, surrounded by my cousin Josh’s schoolwork.
They say that when a house is passed over by a tornado, it can do strange things to the things inside. They say that sometimes a whole room can be destroyed, and the table will still be set, candlesticks standing, untouched by the violence of the storm. As I look at the refrigerator, unchanged in nearly a year, I wonder why some things have been left alone while others have been
completely dismantled. It’s like a half-hearted attempt has been made to honor her memory.
I walk onto the patio. Missy runs after a bird, and disappears around the corner of the house, leaving me alone.
I stand on the patio, knowing that it will be for the last time. I see the backyard through the eyes of a child, a teenager, an adult, a parent. I look at Aunt Val’s pool, and remember when I was so small, riding around it on a big wheel seemed to take all day. I remember playing with my cool Trash Compactor Monster in the shallow end, before I was big enough to brave the deep end and it’s mysteries, known only to the Big Cousins. I remember being unable to ever successfully complete a
flip off the diving board, and reflexively rub my lower back.
I look at the slide, and the sobs which have been threatening since I walked into the house begin.
In summer of last year, I’d taken Ryan and Nolan to spend the day with Aunt Val. The three of us sat
with her on the patio, eating hot dogs she’d grilled for us, drinking punch she’d made. The kids talked eagerly with her about their plans for the rest of the summer and the upcoming school year. I watched her listen to them, the same way she’d listened to me say the same things twenty years earlier, happy that they were getting to share in her unconditional love the way I had.
We went swimming. Nolan and Ryan both doing cannonballs and flips, Aunt Val always giving them an approving, “Good for you, kiddo!” after each trick.
God, I can hear her voice as I write this.
When they grew tired of tricks, they took to the slide. They took turns for a few minutes, going head-first, on their backs, on their knees.
Ryan was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting for Nolan to get out of the landing area, when he screamed and raced into the water. I immediately knew something was wrong, and rushed to the water’s edge to meet him.
I got him out, and saw that he’d been stung by a wasp.
We patched him up with baking soda and some Tylenol, and prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon inside, watching TV.
Aunt Val wouldn’t hear any of that. She picked up a broom, and some Raid, and marched out to the angry nest of wasps, which we now knew was just beneath the upper edge of the slide. The wasps were pretty pissed, and beginning to swarm, and I couldn’t stop my 84 year old great aunt from wiping them out, so the kids could continue to play.
I’m looking at the slide, remembering that day, remembering how scared I was that she’d get stung and would go into shock, remembering how much fun the kids had with her.
I remembered that day, and recalled a thought I had back then, watching her battle with those wasps: Aunt Val isn’t going to be with us forever. Some day I’m going to stand here, and she’ll be gone, and I’ll cry.
So I cry. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her. It’s not fair that she died. It’s not fair at all. I miss her. She was in perfect health one day, and the next she was gone. It’s not fair, and I miss her, and I have to say goodbye to this house, and that’s not fair either.
The finality of her loss takes hold, and refuses to let go. I cry until my sides hurt and my throat is dry. My cheeks are soaked, my nose is running. It’s fitting that as I bid farewell to the house and person who played such an important part in my childhood, I sob like a child.
After awhile, I pull myself together, take a hard look at the backyard, run my hand along the slide, and say goodbye out loud.
I walk back into the house, and I help my dad load the china cabinet into the car. It is heavy and cuts into my hands as I lift it. I’m nervous about dropping it.
Aunt Val’s daughter comes out of the house. I want to scream at her for selling off this enormous part of my childhood, but I don’t. I continue tying down the cabinet, tell her goodbye, and get into the car.
We pull out of the driveway, and drive down the street for the last time.
I speak effusively with my dad on the drive home. I talk about the kids. I talk about work. I talk about the Dodgers and I ask lots of questions about when I was a kid. I want to cherish this time with him, make the most of it. I don’t want to waste any of the time we have together.
When we get home with the china cabinet, my mom asks me how it was being at Aunt Val’s house.
“Tough,” I tell her.
She understands.
We unload the china cabinet. My dad hugs me tightly and thanks me for helping with him. I tell them
that I love them, and I drive home, alone and silent.
It’s been a year since Aunt Val died.
Truth is, it could be a day, or a decade. She is gone, and I will always miss her.
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And I cried with you.
Mugsy
My grandfather died on sunday and I am going to his funeral on thursday. I actually thought about what you wrote about the death of your Aunt yesterday. Just thought you should know.
I wrote about it here
Wil,
My dad died a year ago and I know how it feels to lose someone close to you. The hurt never quite goes away. As time passes you will feel a little better but you will and should always remember. I know I will. Always take the time to live life to the fullest and don’t miss a minute of the time you have with your parents or your wife and kids. Those are the best times in the world.
Best to you and your family……
Matt……
I miss my grandparents more than anything in this whole world. Every time i hear a stroy about Aunt Val i become reminiscent of a family i barely knew, and I cry.
I just want to say I think its so rare to find someone who shares there life with a world of people he hasnt met yet. Its amazing to read about your life…thanks for sharing.
Lisa Marie
Note to self: don’t compose in Kwrite. It really messes with the word wrap.
Grr.
I’m sorry for your loss but glad for the great memories you have. Some of us were too young when we had close relatives die and we can’t remember the vivid details of the time we shared with them. Just be thankful for the time you did have together.
It amazes me how being in a place can bring back emotions and memories. You capture the moment very well… you draw out the emotion… you make me feel.
Not many can do that. 🙂 Go you. And I hope your good memories of Aunt Val never fade.
me
>Truth is, it could be a day, or a decade. She is gone, and I will always miss her
Wil, I know exactly how you feel. On friday night, my best friend of 15 years (I’m only 19, so it was most of my life) was thrown from her horse. She spent Saturday and Sunday in a coma, and then her family decided to take her off the machines on Sunday night. The doctors said she had really been gone since friday. Its hard, someone will say something, even something that isn’t sad or anything, but I’m reminded of a time I spent with her.
Anyhow, I just wanted to thank you for sharing your thoughts with us. Its hard to put feelings like this into words, but its nice to know that someone understands, even when the words don’t come out properly.
i’ve never lost anyone that close to me, so all i can say is i’m sorry.
come on wil, it’s not cool to make people cry at work. But thank you again for opening up your life to us.
Oh Wil,
I’m sitting in front of my computer right now, tears streaming down my face. Thank you for sharing this with us. It’s clear that your Aunt Val was a special part of your life, and that your cherished your time with her. Simply from reading this, I can feel how much you loved her, and am reminded how important it is to cherish every day you have with someone.
Thank you.
Jennifer
I’m crying too; I have felt like you do.
I can tell you that are lucky.
It’s horroble to lose someone so cool, and the finality is stunning, but incredible gratitude will fill you again and again because of the wonderful way she was a part of your life.
Thank you for the way you write.
It’s very real.
Will,
Having just read your posting, memories of my grandfather come flooding back into my heart. I was lucky, the last time I spoke to him I made sure he knew how much I loved him, but I didn’t know that it would be the last time I would talk to him. I did’t really allow myself to grieve right away but eventually I came to terms with the loss. I still miss him very much, but I have many wonderful memories of him which help ease the hurt a little. Thank you for sharing with all of us.
JP
> Note to self: don’t compose in Kwrite. It really
> messes with the word wrap
Geez, dude! You post something like that and worry about WORD WRAP???
Very, very evocative. My sympathy for your loss, and for the losses that we all have suffered over the years. In a way, you’ve summed them all up for us all with this one entry.
Those wasps didn’t know they were messing with —
(dramatic pause, add ECHO to narrator)
— AUNT VAL.
(heh. /ECHO)
Laughed out loud at the demise of the wasps. Gotta love Aunt Val’s feisty self. I’ve a number of elderly relatives, Grandparents, Great-great uncles and aunts, who are getting pretty close to the Time. I sure hope that my cousins and their kids can hear about the things Grandma and Grandpa got up to in their day, and I hope we can keep that house, home of so many Thanksgivings and Christmasses, too.
It’s good of you to go easy on Aunt Val’s daughter. I’m sure things are not kosher in her mind either, but she’s facing the reality of all the lagal stuff that happens with an estate, and she probably doesn’t have a lot of choices.
No one is ever gone when people who love them remember them and miss them. such is life.
Take care.
damn you wil wheaton! :::shakes fist::: you almost made me cry 🙂 every time i come and read a story like that, i know you are a brilliant writer. don’t let anyone ever tell you different.
i sometimes sit around and get depressed about how the past is gone; but then i realize that i should be sitting around and thinking about how the people around me now are so great. remember that and show your boys how great childhood can be.
p.s. i was wondering what happened; your site is one of the very few that looks right in my crappy resolution lol
I lost my grandpa in ’93, he was the only grandparent I ever knew. His memory is with me every day, all the things we did together, the places we went, the things we talked about, that at the time were so inconsequential but now mean the world to me. The good memories are what tempers the loss. I don’t think time heals ALL wounds, but it does prove we can survive. My best to you and your Family Wil.
You should ask John Edward (Crossing Over) for a reading. Several celebrities have done it and I always feel better about life and death after watching his show.
Something to think about.
I don’t know how you do it Wil, but you can convey emotions, just in your words better than most people can do in person. Hearing you describe your aunt’s house reminded me of my second cousins. I could picture myself there in a few years, saying goodbye to my childhood and to her. Missing the feeling of coolness that I got to hang out with all of the big kids playing pool, Sega, and horseshoes. I understand Wil.
No one is truly gone who is remembered.
Love is the only immortality avialable to us, so I imagine your Aunt Val is smiling down from heaven, thanking you for making her immortal.
Bravo.
I dread going back east and seeing the hollowed out shell of my Nana’s house. She passed away this past spring, and she lives — er, liveD (see, I keep doing that) — on the other side of the continent from me. Seeing that empty house will make it all too real.
Thank you so much for this entry. It’s very touching.
Hey Wil,
I’ve posted before, but this is different. Your words and reflection are very deep and thought provoking. My condolences, but I’m very glad to hear that you have such vivid memories – and that you decided to share them. Thanks.
You know, I always ask people that if I were gone tomorrow, how would you remember me? What’s the worst thing about me that you could say? Truth is, most people couldn’t care less about how they’ll be remembered. I most certainly do care and I do my very best to live my life well because I want to leave those I love with good memories.
In “Houses in Motion” you gave your fans insight to a person who is still dealing with the loss of a loved one. As a fan, I think that’s very cool. While I’m a fan of Wil Wheaton the actor, through your writings I’ve become a fan of Wil Wheaton a very genuine and caring person. Thanks for that insight, Wil.
You know, it’s funny: I was always a big Wesley fan because I thought as a person he was written to show depth and sensitivity. It’s nice to know that no matter how you might recall yourself as a teen, there was undoubtedly a lot of Wil Wheaton in Wesley Crusher.
Your fan,
Jerry (Norbie) Fiore
Oh, one more thought – and from a TNG episode, no less!
“No goodbyes, just good memories.”
As I sit here and cry with you, I’m reminded of when I had to do the same thing you did, going through the house and removing things that needed to be distributed for my grandmother, and how I hated that the house was sold and I would have done anything to keep it for myself. But I was only 11 and had to watch as everything I loved in that house was taken away. At least your kids got to meet your Aunt Val, mine will never meet my grandmother.
i can’t believe it’s been a year that she’s been gone. it seems like just a short time ago that you posted your beautiful tribute to her.
this moved me to tears, wil. that rarely happens.
Wil, once again i realize how thought provoking some of your entries can be. I’ve only been a regular reader on your site for a few months and entries like this simply amaze me. Even after a year i can see plainly that the wound is still raw and the hurt fresh. My heartfelt condolences to you and your family. I love reading things like this because its helping all of us, your fans, to get to know you on a more personal level. Keep up the good work! Brook
that was beautiful…. im crying here… god wil… you have a way with words… never stop writing….
That’s a really good entry Wil, best one I’ve had the pleasure of reading. Thanks.
–=–
Alex.
Wil,
Thank you for sharing this with us. It has been just a little over a year since my dearest grandfather passed away. I feel much the same way about him that you do about Aunt Val. Many hugs for you and your family.
Danielle
How rich you are. Memories are like cherished gold. I am a bit envyious. I wish I could have had more of a chance to know my grandpa. But I am glad for the time I did get with him. It is kinda fustrating that I only knew him from a childs perspective.
Wil, when you write these sad stories it always brings a tear to my eye.
I’m sitting here in with tissue in hand. You really touched me today, Wil. I cried for your loss and cried about my own. I’ll never forget walking back inside Grandma’s house 6 months later and feeling so empty. I’d give anything to be able to sit with her and just get to know her better. I didn’t realize until she was gone that I had never once sat with her and asked her what it was like when she was growing up. What were her dreams. What was my dad like as a kid. It took the loss of her to make me realize how much I had alienated myself from my family because of my silly shyness. I always say ‘I love you’ now. But will feel forever guilty about the one who never knew.
Wil
What a wonderful tribute you have done for your Aunt Val.Is it too late for you to put this in your new book? It would be the lasting tribute to you Aunt.
It’s so great to have such touching memories of someone so loving. Gone but not forgotten.
Thanks for sharing that, Wil. :]
I love this entry.
of all the things about the death of a loved one…the closing down of the household is the hardest for me…knowing it’ll never be grandma and grandpa’s house ever again…and even though i knew since they died it could not be the same…the child in me wanted to freeze the moment and hold fast to the way things were.
Wil,
You constantly amaze me with your sensitive and evocative writing. As others have commented you’re an amazing person for sharing yourself the way you do with complete strangers like us. In just two short months you’ve totally turned around my opinion of you to the point I tell everyone I think will understand to go read your website. I’m well and truly hooked!
Your Aunt Val sounds very like my maternal Grandmother, the matriarch of our clan. She passed away 6 years ago and reading your words today evoced some strong memories. Somehow it feels better to know that other people feel the same way.
Drakensykh said ‘No one is ever gone when people who love them remember them and miss them. such is life.’
Too true. The pain never completely goes away – but it does lessen. Soon, you can think of them doing something funny or stupid, and you can smile or laugh. But the first little while is hard. Perhaps the hardest thing I ever had to go through. I lost my most beloved ones 10 and 9 years ago respectively. You might think after all this time it would be in the back of my mind, not the front. But something will happen to take me back, and I will remember their faces, the things we did together….and the fierce grief. Thanks for the post, Wil. When’s that book coming out?
T
I’m dreading that day. My Grandfather passed away a month ago, and now the house on the lake where I spent many days of my childhood will soon be sold.
Will,
I have been reading your web sight for a few months now, and I have to say that you are at your best when you are sharing about you family. The other day with your step son made me smile, and today the story of your aunt Val made me cry. I didn’t have an aunt Val in my life, but I did have two parents who remind me of her and they too are gone. I live miles away from where I grew up, but every time I go home to the that city, I will come across something or place that brings up those same types of emotions, and they are with me again if only for that short time. Thank you for sharing and I hope to read allot more for years to come.
Best Wishes and God Bless
From your comments last year and this year about your Aunt, it sounds even more like your Aunt and my Great Grandmother were birds of a feather. I miss her yes, but get to remember and laugh when I think of the life she shared with me. She passed away years ago and was 98 years old. She is always with me in my thoughts and heart.
Sounds like your Aunt is in yours.
Peace.
Perhaps the most beautiful tribute and rememberance I have ever
read.
Thanks Wil
That was beautiful. I can definitely relate. Reading that brought back a lot of memories of my childhood.
I can’t wait to read your book, your writing style is so flowing, easy to read, and very emotive. Very compelling.
On Death and Dying:
Wil, my dad left us back in ’97 (is it really five years already?). That night I wrote a few words in his honour and posted it. It still brings tears to my mother’s eyes when she reads it. It’s not much to look at —
http://www.en.cl/robert.htm
— but you can look at it too, if you want.
(remember to right click to get out of this window)
Okay, I cried as well. Brings up old sorrow…my uncle who died three weeks ago, our pet cat of 16 years who passed away just two weeks ago…all the others.
Oh, and when you said DODGERs, Wil, you did mean ANGELs…didn’t you???
To me, the sadness that is felt at the loss of a loved one is the reflection of the joy and happiness felt when they were alive….like you and your Aunt Val..
My brother and I became orphaned when I was 22. (having lost my grandfather at 14, mom at 16, grandmother at 18 and dad at 22). The most difficult days of my life, really. There wasn’t enough tears or booze to cope with my sorrow.
We inherited my grandfathers house and property that 3 generations had lived in. There was a weird mixture of joy and sorrow attached to the place. We kept it for a few years, then my brother needed money and I couldn’t buy him out and we had to sell it. I remember the heartache I felt, parting with what I saw as our family legacy. I felt I was loosing everyone again and that I was such a jerk and a failure for not finding a way to keep it.
Part of the property remains as it was when my grandfather could work in the garden. Part of the property has this monstrous house where my grandfather’s rose gardens were, where my brother and I played army, where we used to swim in the lake. It’s kind of obscene in a weird sort of way. I still have some sorrow about the place and the loved ones long gone and still have dreams about it, years later.
I have lost over 30 friends and relatives over the years including my best friend’s suicide 9 years ago. To me, it is an honor that I can still cry and miss him, my parents, and the others. There is more dignity in this than the silly notion of “closure” (which really means “Aren’t you over this yet?”).
To me, it is now better to celebrate the lives of the people who are gone, rather than greive their demise. I have adopted All Souls Day (the Day of the Dead) as the day to do just that. It’s coming up on Nov. 2 and this year maybe I’ll take all my memories and keepsakes and go ride a roller coaster…..
Bernie
The message here;
Enjoy those special people in our lives while they are here.
Cherish the memories later and keep the dream alive.
Wil.
I went through the same thing as you. I know how you feel. My grandfather died a few years back, but my grandmother decided she was going to stay alone in the big house. After awhile, She got sick, so we had to move her into a nursing home, where she could be looked after 24/7. The day I found out we were selling her house, I felt like someone had taken a piece of my heart.. All the memories in their house.. The stories, the games of checkers with my papa..
Jesus, I can’t believe im starting to cry..
Excitedly showing them my new train set, and what it can do… Now its gone.. Even the memories, are starting to fade.. I know it was just a house.. But so many wonderful things happend there.. im sad its gone, just as you are sad that your aunts house is gone now..
Always remember the good times.
– Rob.
That’s one of your most powerful, honest and heartfelt posts, Wil. As is evident from the above comments, you touched a lot of people who recall similar memories of their loved ones, not the least of which being me.
My grandmother died on Christmas Eve, 1997. It’s a memorable, fitting date in that we’d always celebrated Christmas at her house then. Like you, I soon had to say goodbye to a house chock full of childhood memories. It’s a painful transition, but old memories inspire new ones.