Telling Her Story

One Thursday afternoon, my favorite aunt and I sat reminiscing outside her assisted-living facility. Now in her 80s, Auntie especially loved talking about growing up in the small mining town of Clifford, Arizona.

Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Things have changed so much. Soon all that history will be gone.”

I shot up a sad prayer, asking God to somehow help her rediscover joy. Suddenly, an idea jolted me. Recently, I’d taught memoir writing at a senior center. Why couldn’t my aunt write one herself? She could be an unofficial historian. “You love to write,” I said. “You could chronicle all your experiences in Clifford.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that much writing.” She held up her hands, the fingers gnarled and red with arthritis. “Have you forgotten about these fingers?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” I felt foolish for a moment, but then I thought of something. “What if I could be your fingers?” I held
up my smartphone. “All you have to do is talk. We’ll transcribe the recording later.”

Auntie was silent as her arthritic fingers worried the fabric of her skirt. Finally, she looked up. “Well, you do come to visit every Thursday.” She smiled. “And I do love to talk!”

I grinned. From that day on, Thursdays would be extra special.