One of my earliest memories of my aunt (who styled herself as AC in correspondence) took place during unfortunate circumstances. My parents were slated to go on vacation (a true rarity) and I and my younger sister were too young to not be an inconvenience to our older siblings at home on the farm. My mom planned that I would go stay with my cousin Matt’s family and my sister would go to AC’s family. Unfortunately, I caught chicken pox last minute and Matt’s dad had never had the illness before and it was too risky for me to be there. Accommodations were flipped and like a mini Typhoid Mary I was shuffled off to AC’s house instead. I was sad at the change as I preferred to be with Matt, but AC was a kind and quirky host and I soon came around. My bout of illness was severe and I had chicken pox on the inside of my mouth and down my throat and I struggled to eat or drink. My aunt did her best to improve the experience. She dressed me down to shorts and dabbed calamine lotion on each pox with a cotton ball and then proceeded to play connect the dots with a cotton swab in an effort to make me smile. I was not so much scratchy as achy but she stuck large, cow-shaped oven mitts on me anyways–most likely for the comic effect. When her own kids were shuffled off to school she would pack me a little bag lunch to eat at home so I would not feel left out. The outside of the bag was covered in little drawings, cartoon characters and jokes. AC just had a way with kids and always knew how to make things better.

When I moved into my early teens, I had a weekly catechism class (think Christian dogma for kids) on Wednesdays. It was late enough in the day that if I was able to miss out on some farm work. It had the added bonus in that I got to spend an hour or two at AC’s house nearby while I waited for my brother’s class to finish. Her family had MTV and I was starved for a view to the world at large, especially one so unrealistic and processed. When she was home, AC would intervene and pull me upstairs for hot cocoa and conversation. While its not odd for adults to ask what young folks what they have been doing, she was unusual in that she very much seemed to care about me and my experiences. Over cups of cocoa I shared many of my tiny world experiences and she listened and prompted me to share further, always taking time to ask about my dreams and aspirations. The possibilities granted a farm kid like myself always seemed restrained by vision and necessity as practicality, distance from home and the demands of church shut out most options. Or so I thought. AC told me I was smart and encouraged me to quite literally go to the moon if I wanted. She seemed to believe there was enough wiggle room in a life of righteousness for personal achievement and scholastic excellence. It was so damn refreshing. I did not know what I wanted from adult life, but I felt like AC had my back and I had her ear.

When we were to move away, I heard that my aunt lobbied for me to be able to live with she, my uncle and their children so that I could finish my school there. My parents did not even consider it for a moment. I knew they wouldn’t. At heart they did not trust me to not chance my dreams and interests. My mom had said in a fair few tense conversations with me that I “liked to play footsie with the world” and thus needed stern oversight. My desire to dream and see the world was something that frightened my parents and they felt the need to keep me in check. Despite the distance, she still emailed me regularly and always wanted to hear all the news, making sure to tell me she missed me terribly.

Years passed and I decided to come out of the closet at long last. My aunt took it very personally and had no trouble telling me so. I received plenty of correspondence when I came out, much of which came from frustrated or occasionally hostile parties, but nothing hit harder than the messages from her. She was at heart a deeply conservative Christian woman, though one that focused on the love more than most in that world. Her messages to me were riddled through and through with deep, muscle-weakening sadness and grief, which she expressed without compunction. She felt that I was rejecting her and making myself a stranger. I reacted angrily, because I was angry. I was angry at the family who would not accept me, angry at explaining so much and still not convincing any of them, and angry at myself for losing my patience. My responses were clipped and pointed. She responded with tear-stained stories of changing my diapers and singing nursery rhymes to me as an infant. She wanted me to know she would always love me as she always had, but that I had to know I was wrong. In its own way, it was more painful than working though the process with my parents. They were intractable, cold and unyielding while AC was not afraid to show vulnerability and compassion. It made being firm so very difficult. I tried my best to spell out my struggle and explain how the me that she knew was still there and that I had not changed, but she did not see. Watching our relationship grow quiet away over months and years hurt more than I ever let her know.

I received a short message from her in 2007 after most of dust had settled and our barriers were drawn and reinforced. It simply said, “I want you to know that you are not forgotten.” That was the last I heard for years til the unfortunate day my childhood friend and cousin, Matt, passed away. AC sent a Facebook message (we had become so modern in the passing years)to inform me and offered a room in her house to me as lodging. I declined the invitation and opted to stay with a friend as more than anything I did not want to run into my parents and have a scene. I flew out to Washington. Filled with sadness and nervous energy, I arrived early to the cemetery. I lingered by my car and waiting for more people to arrive so I might mask myself in the masses of mourners. After a few minutes of apprehension, I left my car and proceeded towards to site. A car pulled in front of mine and parked. Out of the front passenger seat climbed a woman I immediately recognized as my beloved aunt. Her hair had greyed a bit over the years but she was still the same woman I had always known. She caught sight of me and walked over to wrap me in an embrace. She was shorter than my memory made her out to be. We walked silently together toward the site, stopping briefly so I could shake my uncle’s hand. There was little to say as I sense we both knew nothing had changed, despite our appearances and we were grieved by the loss of cousin and nephew. After the service but before parting ways, she turned to look up into my eyes and grasped my forearms. With visible sincerity she stated, “It is good that you are here.” I held it together until I made it back to the privacy of my rented car and finally allowed myself to fall apart a bit. After my grandmother’s funeral, my parents had accused me of attending family funerals just to spite them with my presence. Having someone I valued dearly who belonged in their world tacitly tell me that they were wrong and that my presence was wanted felt indescribably validating.

Things have not really changed between AC and I, though I wish I could say otherwise. I cannot stop being gay and she is deeply invested in her faith. My adult life has become bound up in my life with my partner and my job helping those in the LGBT community and her’s remains marked by a potent, encompassing religious devotion. There seems little to say and I more than anything do not want fruitless conflict.This leaves few alternatives beyond an amicable, silent detente. Midst the empty silence there is a silver lining inthat when fate brings us together again, I know I was get a hug and hear “It is good that you are here.” And I know she will mean it.