A caffeine headache is searing through my head, preventing any fruitful contemplations. What’s more is my cat is sitting in front of me reaching for me with her paw, seeking my attention. Her tactic works - to a degree - till I brush her off by scratching her head briefly, only to resume to my lack of thought. I search the room desperate to find something of inspiration, till my eyes land on my collection of photographs.

There are photos of my family, for the most part. Scattered throughout are photos of certain family members. One contains my Aunt Shelbey and me just last November at her wedding, when I played the part of an honorary Maid of Honor. Honorary Maid of Honor sounds like a strange title to posses and it is. I had been Maid of Honor in place of the Bride’s sister – My Aunt Kristen. The wedding had been stunning, and I presented my maid of honor speech, with a rather generous amount of good feedback. I had made sure to mention how honored I felt to stand in the place that Kristen should have been.

My eyes trail across my collage of photos, and I land on a small 3x4 metal frame in pink with hearts around the edge. The surface has been dented, and the paint has chipped. It’s not hard to tell that the object has been through some years. In fact, I used to take it with me every time I went somewhere for a night. The way a slightly more normal child would, with their stuffed animal.  Granted, I would bring my cherished TY Beanie baby duck as well. That doesn’t change the fact that taking the picture every time I spent the night elsewhere was peculiar.

I was a weird kid. Losing your aunt at six years old to a motorcycle accident can affect you that way. I can’t remember things about her that I wish that I could. Every once in a while she comes up in conversation with the family and I can’t seem to grasp the things they talk about in my memory. Her eyes, her smile, and how she looks overall is left to what I’ve composed in my head via photos.  I have never more loathed my bad memory than at times when I want to see her face.

Eleven years later, losing my aunt has still affected me. My favorite color is a dark red, as hers’ is a bright fire engine red. My favorite Flower is a Calla Lily, as is hers. I almost always prefer dark chocolate to milk, as does she. She is the reason I do many of the things I do. I hear all that people say about her; how she is just a kind spirit whose smile lit up the room and the hearts in it. How I saw her as a small child wasn’t always what others saw. I was her niece. Of course I had a different perception of her. A beautiful, altruistic, sassy woman is how I’ve grown to know her.

Even though I have to resort to pictures, how I felt when she was alive and when I lost her resonates through my mind’s eye. The six year old having hysterics over losing her aunt is still alive in my head. So is my Auntie Koko.