Do you have an Aunt Mary? I have an Aunt Mary. Or rather I had an Aunt Mary. She took me to the museum to see the mummies and the dinosaurs when I was a boy. And when I was a boy we went to her house and roasted marshmallows and watched fireworks. And we would, onto space, sign our names with sparkle sticks until the dark air swallowed them up. Not then, but now: our mark in life, in the infinity of time, a bright spot, that can’t last quite long enough to even get our names down.

My Aunt Mary was funny and kind. And once she had a carnival in her backyard. I think only because she felt like it. And she painted my face. It was happy on one side and on the other, sad. I cried when my mother finally made me wash it off. And all that was left was the normal pinkness, sad then on both sides.

My Aunt Mary took me to see Star Wars. Not the first time, but still she wanted to go see it. I think she wanted to see it for herself but taking me made for a good excuse. She mumbled, exhilarated, through the whole movie. She ate my Twizzlers and spilt my popcorn and fumbled with her little bottle in her purse.

My Aunt Mary was funny and sad. By Christmas that year, that year of Star Wars, she was convinced that Darth Vader was coming. And while I was home watching Rudolph and convinced that Santa Claus was coming, or perhaps not entirely convinced, because I was of that terrible age of dawning reason, my Aunt Mary shot a hole through her skull. My Aunt Mary was funny yes, but very sad. I miss her still. A shining, colorful burning name not quite etched into the darkness and the sharp effulgent smell of potassium chlorate, burned sugar, and burned metal flakes drifting, drifting.

SS