Fancy Knickers for Christmas

Aunty Sandy with her three boys and daughter-in-law at my 21st in 2009.

Aunty Sandy with her three boys and daughter-in-law at my 21st in 2009.

I went all the way into Melbourne on the train today for work, only to turn around and come right back full of sneezes and sniffs. I read post after post after post about David Bowie as I sat there and felt the collective shock and sadness of his death, while a different shock and sadness unfolded in me. So I wrote something about my Aunty Sandy, who also died on Sunday.

 

As I read tribute
after tribute,
grief pouring forth for
Mr Bowie,
I feel confusion
settle
inside me
and a great
hollow space fringed
with fluttering cries
but Aunty Sandy,
my Aunty Sandy
has died.
Who is Bowie –
my beautiful Aunty
godmother friend
who held my hand
when I lay in terror
before an operation,
who gave me teddy bears
from childhood into
adulthood –
whose home was filled
with precious teddies
cuddled in corners
in every room,
who would stay
when I was growing up
and fill the house with
her perfume, I can still smell,
who gave me my first pair
of fancy knickers
one Christmas, which
I looked upon horrified,
who advocated extra
everything with every meal,
who was promising hauntings
when we said goodbye,
who was wicked and loving
and wonderful.
She has died.
She has died.

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