My aunt Flor passed away on March 14 at the age of 60. I was never really close to her. In fact, her abrasive and stern demeanor made her difficult to like. I always thought of her as the bitter one out of the three sisters—my aunt Mercedes being the coquettish extrovert, and my mother the wonderful cook with impeccable fashion sense.
Apparently the scene at my aunt’s deathbed was taken straight out of a telenovela. At a certain point my mother and father were in the room by themselves when my mother said, “ I know what you want sister and I will leave you two to say goodbye.”
Flor had been in love with my father for over 30 years.
She had failed after failed marriage. She was never really happy, it seemed. How heart-wrenching it must have been to see my mother and father together. How awful it must have been for my mother to know of my aunt’s feelings and not be able to tell anyone about them.
Mom stood outside as my dad kissed my aunt on the cheek. The bacterial infection had attacked so much of her brain that she couldn’t respond with more than just slight movements of her lips. But, Mom said, that you could see the happiness and peace in her eyes. Flor died later that afternoon.
The only regret my mom says she has is that she did not forgive my aunt earlier. She tells me to forgive everyday and love everyday. She’s come a long way from a conservative close-minded Catholic.
