Packing is filled with memories and the excitement of a new adventure. As I was boxing things to move, a bright memory was brought on by my Aunt Rita’s golden 1970’s bowl. It was in storage in my parents attic for years and some how ended up with me.
Aunt Rita was my god mother. My memories of her are distant and faded, but fond. Some time in her thirties she was consumed by mental illness. As a child my exposure to her was limited. She was in and out of institutions and lived a life uninhibited by any social norms when on the outside.
She would sporadically call my parents house, and as a teen I was always the first to answer the phone. Despite the clear mental confusion in her voice she was always loving and kind when we spoke. In a daze of drugs, fog, and tragedy she had a brutal clarity about the world around her. My parents wanted to shield me, but I found her conversations intoxicating. Where ever her mind and body took her she never forgot to call me on my birthday. Her yearly birthday wish gave me a sense of connection.
When I found Aunt Rita’s bowl I held it up to the light and wondered how things looked through her eyes. Golden, Beautiful, and Distorted.