My mother’s sister was 12 or 13 when I was born, and instantly, I became her screaming, squirming, real-life baby doll. She always had gum and candy in her purse. She would sneak me chocolate in the back pew on Sunday mornings. She pierced my ears the week before I started Kindergarten. She taught me to wear make up and high heels. She helped me learn to drive. She kept my secrets.
She wore her hair short and spunky because she was short and spunky. My mom liked to say that she was impulsive, but really, she just wanted to have more fun than everyone else. She laughed a lot, and her laughter was infectious.
In the last hour of Friday, April 14th, my Aunt Katy departed this earth. She leaves behind an adoring husband, Joe, and two daughters, Mary and Kaitlyn. And a big, gaping hole where her laughter ought to be.