Auntie.

She sat beside her, almost juxtaposed against the frail, dying figure, looking radiant under the soft light within the deathly pallor of the room. Light like pastels was splayed over the younger woman's face, revealing her gentle eyes.

On the bed a woman of eighty-three was lying. A grey mop of hair was flicked back over her face and her eyes were the blue of a fjord lake in summer. Her lips were cracked and peeling and her hands were soft and cold, like the texture of night satin.

The old lady struggled for air and her eyelids were weighted with a thousand centuries of fatigue. She'd fallen two weeks previous and damaged her hip. Now, all she keeps muttering is: 'I want to go home'. Home - to where she'd be safe; the place she knows well. Home - to where she'd be completely lost; her dark haven in the light - her fortress made of straw.

She has ten children, only four of which my mother knows. Her partner died two years ago. They lived together for eighteen years. She's utterly lost now. I think she's scared of being found.

She was my auntie. Her life was tragedy, comedy, love, hope, death, decay, renewal, violence, peace, squalor and odd spots of being preyed upon by spineless thieves. She died on April 30th. She rests nowhere - only in the turbulence of our memories. She was cremated on the 22nd of May. May our memories treat her gently. May we inter her into the depths of peace but never forget. I'll see you on the other side of the other side. I see you still.