Shannon Costello

Although heritage is not something I have considered terribly important, it is an inescapable part of what defines me. I think of it as an intricate, closely woven tapestry in the background of my life. My Aunt Judy’s death left a ragged hole in that tapestry.

The picture of the closed casket does not dominate in my mind when I recall the viewing or the funeral: I knew that what was left was only a shell of what had been. All the same, my most vivid impression is of the moment when the pall-bearers began to wheel the casket with its mass of already-wilting flowers down the aisle at the close of the service. Not only is Aunt Judy gone, but even her shell has been taken.

Death is a part of existence on earth. Aunt Judy was diagnosed with a rare lung disease several years ago and her death was not unexpected. I accept that she is gone, that such things have to be. But I am sad. I realize now that this is not the first tear in my tapestry. It is more tattered and full of holes the farther back I go, until I reached the dangling, uneven threads that mark the end of my awareness of my family. I remember my grandfather, I know of his mother, but of her parents I know nothing.

I grieve for myself, my parents, and my extended family because we have lost her. I am also sorry for the next generation, the children who are now too young to remember her or who have not yet been born. They are lost to each other, Aunt Judy and these children.

My Aunt Joanna described herself as the matriarch of the family now that Aunt Judy is gone. As older family members die, the next in line step forward. They become the preservers of family history, holding in their memories pieces of the tapestry that the next generation will never know.