Today Jiminez posted a gripping flashback read.  As I immerse myself into his writing, a personal floodgate opens.   With an appreciation to Jiminez and his shared gift, this Sunday morning I'd like to remember and write about my Aunt Fran.

Flashback 1-- I am six year's old and soon to play in a piano recital.  My early gift in music has excited my teacher and a few locals. As always, mother dear has made me a lovely little red A-line dress.   A few hours before we leave for the showcase,  in strides Aunt Fran on stiletto stilts from LA.  She is carrying a mulberry blue party dress, and a white ruffled slip.  The fabric flows forth from her arms.  White ruffled silk socks. Shiny new, black patent leathers. White satin gloves.  "Oh Fran, you shouldn't have!" exclaims my mother. I know, even at this age, my gentle mother would never offend my aunt by not accepting the new dress, even if she had hours before sewn long into the night.

Flashback 2--The location:  Aunt Fran's new apartment in the city.  She has lined walls in thick brown velvets.  A luxurious leopard spread is on her bed.   Movers are coming in and out moving furniture someone left behind.  The men bend to lift an old green sofa.  My aunt stalls them long enough to explore the piece. There in the mattress compartment is a brown cardboard box full of books.  Books about a girl who can do anything that boys can do.  Books in a box upon which my aunt, with her long pink nails, scrawls, "For Scupper."  The box is set aside, and the moving men carry out the old sofa that never belonged in the world of Fran.  How did she know the significance of this decision?  In all the flashbacks I have of this aunt, not one recalls her reading--not one.

 Flashback 3 --My aunt is selecting a table in Shakey's Pizza Parlor. The picture below is not of my aunt, but it could have been. 

At the age of this memory, I did not know about sexuality, nor did I understand the chain of lust linking women and men.  I only knew that my mother, Aunt Fran, and I went to eat at Shakey's, a new parlor in the town of Santa Maria.  I watched Fran flash a smile upon entry, and I watched her smooth the front of her Gold Lame' sweater.  Fran's hips rolled as she walked, and the large gemstones on her fingers sparkled as cheese dripped off her pizza slice.  My mother, a quiet, beautiful, demure, small-breasted, every button buttoned mother,  and I settled seamlessly into the dark corners of the booth. We were not even there.

Flashback 4-- Age 9.  Mother and Daddy have been fighting again about his drinking.  It is late, and my sister and I are sleeping on a pallet in the living room floor.  Hours before mom popped corn, and we all watched Bonanza.  An open Monopoly game is nearby.  The doorbell rings, and Fran glides in.  She tells us she has come to play Pocahantas.  

 She brings Madame Alexander dolls, and two suede fringed costumes to match.  My sister and I are soon in Fran's convertible traversing toward LA.  The costumes become our second skin.  A week later we were returned to our home on Edgewood.  Daddy was barbecuing outside on the patio.  Mother was smiling.  I saw my father caress my mother's arm as she handed him a platter of parboiled ribs.  Sister and I carried our dolls, and modeled our garb for the reception of home.

Flashback to a year ago.  I'm grown and twice divorced.  Fran's fifth husband and long time love has been laid to rest.  Fran has become delusional.  The righteous sisters have her committed.  I have to search for her because I've raised hell, and no-one will answer the question, "Where have you put her?"  You don't move a woman who has lived her entire adult life in Los Angeles across country without preparation.  You don't withhold her wine.  You don't take her smokes.  You don't insist she attend the weekly study of scripture.  And when she begins to light candles, chant, and prowl naked in the darkness of her own home, you don't  call 911.  NOT FOR THIS AUNT.

 Flashback to the last visit.  I've punched the entry code I hate.  Soon Fran and I are talking about Obama, and reactions of the Angels.  She is asking about my girls, and thanking me for the red watch I've brought for her wrist, and the olive oil sugar scrub intended for her face.  She laughs at the twist of the bright pink lipstick.  She asks me if I like the flower arrangement she's crafted for her room, and she tells me she has made them for the other patients.  She leans to confide, "I own this place, you know."  I kiss her soft cheek.  I tell her, that I do know, and I do.  "You won't be here forever, I tell her.  I don't have a costume, a convertible, or a detective to tell me how, but I have a mind.  You will not be here forever."  She holds tight my plain hand.  It is her  lifted, liquid eyes that own the memory.  Her eyes.

 Thank you Roy Jiminez. 

 eye image/fotosearch

   ©Scupper, October 09