Whatever was left unsaid can still be said...
memories and a tribute
On December 18th, 2023, I woke up with a start in the middle of the night to the sound of my mom yelling my name. I looked at the clock. It was 4:15am. I was at home in bed in New Jersey. A whole state away from my mom. A knowing passed through my body but I denied it and willed myself back to sleep.
My beloved Aunt Kiki transitioned about 30 minutes later. (I would learn this in the morning.) The reality that my incredible aunt is now an ancestor feels just as unbelievable in this moment as it did that day.
I had the honor of sharing a bit about what she meant to me at her memorial. I wept while reading the entire thing, and—with my dear uncle, cousin, mom and all who loved her in my heart—I share these tear-stained memories here.
This is less “here’s something I wrote in the wake of her death” and more “here’s something I wish I had shared with her while she was on this side.”
This post is dedicated to my Aunt Kiki. With love.
We all know—and have been reminded today—of the amazing mother, wife, Nana, sister, daughter, friend and neighbor Candace was.
And I’m here to throw one more label on the list… aunt…on behalf of all of us who had the honor to call her this.
But, before I go too much further, I need to clarify something. Candace…wasn’t actually Candace to me.
You see, when my sister M was a baby, the name “Candace,” even “Candy,” was a bit difficult for her to say. And so “Kiki” is what came out instead. “Aunt Kiki” immediately adopted this as her moniker in our family and, seven years later when I was born, it’s how she was introduced to me.
It’s all I’ve ever known her as: my Aunt Kiki.
The first time I was on an airplane I was 10 years old, headed from New York to Los Angeles. I came alone, traveling with a plastic card around my neck, indicating I was a solo traveler. When I got off the plane, Aunt Kiki was there to greet me with her warm smile and hug.
Later that night, I stood in the parking lot, outside the stage door of a club we had just been to. I don’t remember the singer or band, I don’t remember the name of the venue, I don’t remember anything other than saying “I think I’m going to be sick,” and promptly, mortifyingly, vomiting in the corner.
I don’t know if it was something funky I’d eaten on the plane, the car ride around the winding LA hills that I just wasn’t used to (and probably never will be), the jet lag or a combination of all three.
Whatever it was, I was scared. But, Aunt Kiki was there, rubbing my back, pulling my hair away, wiping my face and telling me everything was going to be OK.
As she tucked me into a comfy bed later that night, I felt truly cared for.
And that’s what Candace has represented…has been…for my entire life. Someone who is caring, selfless, giving to others, and kind to the very core.
I know we could all fill this entire room with stories of her generosity and love.
Many more visits followed over the years. She and Uncle A opened their home and their arms to me each time. Laughs. Meals. Her adorable doggy voice. Colorful cards with calligraphy-like letters and matching stickers. Her dozing off in a big comfy chair with a book in her hands in the late afternoon. Visits to her nail salon. Homemade lemon poppyseed bread.
As the years went on, and time passed as it does, my visits waned. Aunt Kiki continued to be there. Thoughtful check-ins. Coordinating our annual east coast Thanksgiving weekend brunch.
She doted on me, on us, in so many ways. And, when I started a family of my own, her caring, thoughtfulness and generosity extended to my husband and my son, too.
I feel grateful to have been in closer contact with her these last few months. As my mom’s health faced new challenges, Aunt Kiki was there once again.
This past June, I sat huddled and scared on a hospital hallway floor, quaking with fear as my mom, Candace’s sister, was rushed into emergency surgery. I had called my own sister who was on her way to join me. Now, I simply had to wait.
It was after midnight on the east coast. I sent a text message to Candace with an update. She responded “If you want to talk. I am here.”
“Can I call in a little if I need? I know it’s late,” I asked.
Her response came swiftly and definitively: “Of course sweetheart. Any time.”
I called her soon after.
My words running faster than my mind. I had needed to make some big decisions in a heated moment, “Did I do the right thing?” I choked out. “ I don’t know what to do right now.”
“You absolutely did the right thing,” came her calm and measured response. Her resolve and tone were so reassuring.
There I was, a 39 year old woman but also—in that same moment—a 10 year old child. And there she was, my caring, selfless, kind Aunt Kiki, comforting me.
This time from 3,000 miles away.
Through the phone she once again pulled my hair away, rubbed my back and wiped my tears.
She once again told me everything would be OK.
Those of us here today are filled with deep sorrow and grief, though our grief may look different, feel different and be different in any given moment on any given day.
Our grief may be found in re-living the memories of what was. Our grief may be found in persistent thoughts of “I wish I would have…” Our grief may be found in the many layers of what lives between.
Today, my own grief lies in the words I never got a chance to say.
When I shared this feeling with a friend, she offered me this sentiment in loving response:
“Whatever was left unsaid can still be said.”
I know there will be many more words, for all those who loved her, in the days to come, but for today, and on behalf of all of us here (and those that can’t be here)... those of us that were the recipients of her generosity, her selflessness and her caring heart…I will simply begin with these four:
Aunt Kiki: Thank you.
This is a beautiful tribute. Thank you for reminding me that it's never to late to express ourselves.
Thank you for sharing your Aunt Kiki with us on her yahrzeit. 🕯️🤍🕊️