LIFE/DEATH
Fading Echoes
Finding Connections in the Quiet Moments
“If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them.” — James O’Barr
After Aunt Vivian’s memorial, I stayed back, drifting through her quiet house. Sandalwood still hung in the air — her favorite scent. It was comforting but wrong, somehow. The house felt empty like it was waiting.
I wandered room by room, memories tugging at me. In the guest bedroom, I found a box tucked in a corner, coated with dust. Inside were old photographs, letters, tiny trinkets, things she must’ve treasured. Beneath it all, I spotted something brittle: an obituary clipping. It was for Uncle Robert, my mom and Aunt Vivian’s brother. He died nearly thirty years ago.
He was only 49. Cancer took him. Aunt Vivian had kept this yellowed newspaper all these years, like a piece of him she couldn’t let go of. The edges were frayed, paper so thin it felt like it might dissolve. I read the words, slowly, then saw the handwriting. My dad’s.
He’d written it. A tribute to his brother-in-law, a goodbye from one man to another. Now they were all gone. My uncle, my dad, Aunt Vivian — all of them. Holding that fragile piece of…
