I just wrote about my aunt being diagnosed with liver complications. Sad to believe that was what killed her, and can possibly kill me if I am not careful with my diet.
It's been a long time since then. Almost 4 years.
And it still hurts to remember the last days of my aunt.
I'm pretty sure I wrote on somewhere (I think it might be myspace) where I talked about my aunt and the last day I saw her.
If anything I am sad because I still remember the last time that I saw her alive. She looked frail like she was going to die and I just shrugged it off and told her she'd be fine. Then I ran home and started watching television I think.
I don't even remember why I went over there in the first place.
Then when I saw her lying on the white hospital bed with tubes up her nose and through her mouth and I really cried. I sobbed uncontrollably like a blubbering fool because I realized she will no longer be here to ask me to come outside and just talk.
She would always invite me to go outside and talk with her, about anything.
She would also tell me stories of people that live in Chilchota, whom she expected me to know and I would nod my head assuring her that I did but I secretly didn't. Often times, when she would tell me about them I would try to block her out and not think about anything.
I miss her tremendously. I hate that she passed away. She didn't get to see me or her son or Jorgie graduate high school. She didn't see me graduate college. Hell, I miss her simply walking over and just asking me to sit outside with her, as if we are going to be just taking a siesta outside when the sun touches our skin to the point that it didn't burn anymore. Where we just sit and we don't even have to talk about anything, we are just keeping each other company.
I guess that's enough being nostalgic. I just felt like reflecting because someone asked me about illness and God, and how I come to question it.
No better example than my aunt.
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