Robert Wallace

She was my favorite aunt; actually she was my favorite person, and I was hers.  She told me so.

When I was little, my great great Aunt Sarah, who lived and worked in the city about five miles from us, would often come to our apartment for the weekend.  Early on Saturday and Sunday mornings, I would climb into bed with her and she'd snuggle me and sing Hungarian songs.  Then we'd have breakfast together, and after that we'd play cards: she taught me how.  Later she'd bake her Hungarian hazelnut crescent cookies and get powdered sugar flying around the kitchen, much to Mom's dismay.

I remember when she sneezed the spells would go on for over 30 minutes, and we'd lose count, laughing at her with each eruption. 

Although Sarah never married, she had six siblings and a huge extended family and was always socially occupied.  Sometimes I'd stay at her apartment overnight and sleep in the entry room on a Murphy bed.  Her brothers and a niece would come by after dinner and we'd play penny ante poker. 

In 1971, when Aunt Sarah died at 85, I somehow got the quilt she'd made for her unclaimed dowry.  Since her passing, I've opened and refolded my new quilt annually, carefully replacing my treasure in its plastic bag.  This year I thought about keeping it out.  Otherwise, after I die, and Aunt Sarah is forgotten, whoever eventually uses the quilt won't know how special it is.