My last post was regarding trying to catch the memories of my oldest, and nearly last, living relative - my Aunt Janice. I had ambitious plans to take copious notes after determining and asking specific meaningful questions then try to encapsulate the breadth of a human life in a few writings.
However, two days after my last post, my Aunt Janice died. It was her time. I was not surprised, and to an extent, I was happy for her as her physical health had deteriorated so significantly.
Her funeral was small. She actually did not want anything formal. In her words, all she wanted was for me to “burn her” then “dig a hole” over her husband’s grave and bury her. Funerals are for the living, though, and I coordinated a modest opportunity for her friends and relatives to pay their final respects. It was a peaceful process without drama nor anger nor antipathy.
There was a hiccup when we lost track of where my Uncle’s grave was. The weeds this last spring of 2023, even in the Sonoran desert, were ridiculous, and someone stole the large, heavy wrought-iron cross (probably for a few pennies of scrap value) marking my Uncle Jim’s grave. Consequently, I selected the wrong location for the small grave to be dug for the inurnment. Fortunately (and I believe somewhat divinely), a relative of the person’s grave I had mistakenly identified as my Uncle’s happened to visit the cemetery while family friends were digging. I was informed during the wake, and we decided to regroup at the cemetery before sunrise.
With help from many others - family friends, Gila River tribal employees (cemetery crew), and members of the Gila River and Salt River Pima communities - my identification of the freshly cleared land of my uncle’s grave was confirmed, and a new hole was dug. While our friends completed the relatively quick task of preparing a new resting place for my aunt’s urn, I drove with her remains through Sacaton.
Now, we (my mom, aunts, brother, and I) are all enrolled members of the Salt River tribe, but my grandmother - my aunt’s mother - was enrolled in Gila River, and, as a result of agreement with my grandfather, a house was built in Sacaton in which my mom and aunts grew up and in which I spent the greater part of my childhood. The house is long gone, but I drove my aunt past its former location as the sun began to make its way over the eastern horizon. We continued through the village past St. Anthony’s (my uncle was Irish Catholic) and the remains of the massive, historic “C. H. Cook” Presbyterian church (my great-grandfather was a Presbyterian minister and part of the original “class” of students following the teachings of the missionary Charles Cook, and this church played a dominant role in our family’s lives). I drove past some other locations meaningful to my aunt then made the 15 mile drive back to the Vah-Ki Cemetery.
The plan was to simply to say a final Christian prayer and blessing of committal at the grave then bury my aunt, but my cousin and an elder from Gila River offered to make a final traditional blessing and to sing the song remembering the place “just beyond and before the sunrise” where O’odham go after their physical bodies have expired. The sun was low but bright, and there was a slight breeze circulating the perfect spring temperatures that morning; it was beautiful.
Months later, I still hold regrets that I wasn’t as good a nephew to my aunt as I could have been. I was responsible, in generally regular turn, of caring for my mom, my dad, my Aunt Margo, and finally, my Aunt Janice in their final days - four people ultimately laid to rest over fifteen years of work and worry. I tell myself I did a satisfactory job - that my efforts beyond the simply necessary (of which there were many) were loved and appreciated, but I cannot help but allow guilt to occasionally grip me.
I have been provided countless blessings and opportunities in life, and I do reluctantly but honestly admit a level of irritation with the responsibilities of taking care of my relatives during the ends of their lives. Having a tiny family has its drawbacks - chiefly, there are few options for alternative or aid in taking care of elder family members. I futilely, and foolishly, asked, “why me?” As with other obligations that tasked me and revealed my selfishness, I accepted my responsibilities and tried my best to help those who needed help.
I know there was an option to choose a different course of action - as all life consists merely of on-going acts of choice. What do I do? Why? For whom? For me, the choices with my relatives were not overwhelmingly attractive, but they were clearly defined.
As a child, those same people - my mom, dad, and aunts - made their own choices to help me in my growth and understanding of life. I was indebted to them.
However, their choices to help me as a child and adult were, I know, founded wholly in love, and ultimately, my choices to take care of them were easy because love motivated and embraced me.
Sometimes life can seem confusing and staggering; personal joy and preference may take precedence and be nearly irresistible, but love, unadulterated in perspective and understanding, can provide tremendous clarity and comfort. I am grateful everyday for the love of family now gone but also, so much, for the strong and supportive love of friends and family here.
I am grateful.