Ever since my auntie got an iPhone when she turned ninety in 2015, she has emailed me every day. Once in a while we talk about big stuff––her memories of childhood and her six-years-younger brother, my father, helped me understand the forces that shaped him.
But mostly we chat about our days.
I tell her all the mundane things I wouldn't write on here--exactly what I need done at the dentist, what the weather's like, how I slept last night.
She tells me about her neighbor putting up a new fence, who drove her to the grocery store this week, what she's knitting.
Last month, her arm became so sore––from a pinched nerve, she thought––she couldn't knit or even type on her phone's little keypad without pain, and the emails became much shorter--just a brief line or two.
Then a friend suggested my auntie try her phone's dictation feature, and the emails became longer than they ever have been, sometimes including wacky mistaken transcriptions that she lets stand because they are so funny. She calls the feature her secretary.
Today with her phone, she took a photo for me of a passage in a book she keeps in the bathroom, a passage she had opened to this morning:
But mostly we chat about our days.
I tell her all the mundane things I wouldn't write on here--exactly what I need done at the dentist, what the weather's like, how I slept last night.
She tells me about her neighbor putting up a new fence, who drove her to the grocery store this week, what she's knitting.
Last month, her arm became so sore––from a pinched nerve, she thought––she couldn't knit or even type on her phone's little keypad without pain, and the emails became much shorter--just a brief line or two.
Then a friend suggested my auntie try her phone's dictation feature, and the emails became longer than they ever have been, sometimes including wacky mistaken transcriptions that she lets stand because they are so funny. She calls the feature her secretary.
Today with her phone, she took a photo for me of a passage in a book she keeps in the bathroom, a passage she had opened to this morning:
A wonderful person, you're so fortunate to have her as your auntie. reminds me of my grandmother
ReplyDeleteWe are lucky if we have people like this in our lives, aren't we?
ReplyDeleteIt's sad to see them go--hopefully my auntie will be here a while longer...
What a terrific passage. It reminds me of the advice Siduri gives in the Gilgamesh story — nope, no permanence, but enjoy a bath, clean clothes, holding a child's hand. These things too are the human lot. (Very loosely paraphrased.)
ReplyDeleteWith all best wishes to your aunt.