Sunday, January 22, 2012
It’s been a year since my great aunt, Irva died. In some ways, it’s still as hard and hurtful as it was on that day. She was one of a kind, a truly great lady in all nuances of the word. There will never be anyone like her.
All my life, no matter what was going on, I knew, without question or doubt, that Irva was proud of me. She was happy to have me in her family. Even when she had no option but to say no to one of my schemes, she did it in such a way that I knew she was still with me. She was funny and smart and classy with a devilish streak in her that showed in the least expected moments. She was strong and full of quiet determination. She was my Irva and I adored her.
She’s the only person who has read ALL of my books. Yes, even the first ones that are decent stories but so disastrous they should never see the light of day. She encouraged me in unimaginable ways. And supported me whether I was writing about kittens or bondage sex.
There are memories we made that are just ours, that no one else knows of since we’d sneak off on occasion and have adventures on our own. They’re the most wonderful memories! But today, they are also the ones that hurt the most.
Irva is in my heart so I know she’ll never be gone entirely. Only she’s not here and I miss her so tremendously. I wish you’d known her. It would help to be able to talk to someone who did. But there’s no one so here I am, on my own, fighting hard not to so terribly sad because I know she wouldn’t want that.
Posted by barbara huffert at 8:17 AM