My Tropical Storm

I vividly remember him bending over low to meet my seven year old gaze. As he handed me a five dollar bill, he'd slowly articulate the phrase, "this is for you," in an accented English. He always looked older, always full of wrinkles creasing his face, but his eyes were bright, vibrant, wandering from person to person. He spoke little English, but he knew the important words. Like niece. Great niece to be exact.

He married my Great Aunt Faye much before I was born, in a time where marrying outside of your culture or religion was unthinkable. Him, a boy from Spain over in Brooklyn for a short amount of time. Her, a young Jewish girl who was a tremendously talented dancer. Going against their parents, they fled to Spain and became flamenco dancers. Not once did they think their love was a mistake.

She lost her parents when that happened, not by death, but by disownment. Several decades of a happy marriage later, she lost her husband, my Great Uncle Julius, when I was nine. I understood the loss, comprehended it greatly, but it didn't affect me immediately. I didn't know him that well; we never spoke more than a few words to one another. But he was there, a member of my family, one I would always remember.

From then on, whenever we would see her on holidays, birthdays, or reunions in New York, she would drop to my level (which wasn't much, as the short gene ran on that side of my family) and with quivering hands and tearful eyes, hand me five dollars. "Your Uncle would want you to have this." The first time she said it, I cried.

I never called her my Great Aunt Faye. She was, indeed, great, however she never seemed old. She was spry, never opting for help going places. She was independent, living in the same apartment on the cusp of Queens that she moved to with Uncle Julius upon coming back to America. And she was incredibly old fashion, in a deliriously amazing way. She wore a girdle until her seventies. She wore the same beehive hairstyle until her eighties. I adored her.

She had this ferocity about her that was shocking, yet admirable. No one spoke down to her, no one treated her old. She'd attack with an attitude typically reserved for people in their twenties. It was an educated attack, one that you couldn't disagree with. One you applauded her for saying.

And she was determined. No one derailed her plans, which was originally proved by her move to Spain and later by her refusal to move into a nursing home. She had that same spirit through 1996, when she passed away due to old age. It was painless, in a hospital. She was in her late eighties. I was 17.

I took that one harder, as I knew her and she was, incidentally, the first person that was close to me to pass away. She left me some mementoes, a shawl and fan from her dancing days, and some important reminders, such as her engagement and wedding rings which she never took off. Although I have those physical reminders, it's my memories that I love the most. Her smiling, her yelling at my grandfather, a person who is never yelled at. Although I differ from her in many ways, I took many of her traits. I'm slightly single minded to the point that I fight to get what I want in life. I disregard cultural and racial boundaries, loving someone who is far from being Italian and Jewish.

My mom likes to think she's out there looking over us and to a point I do as well. When I went to interviews for a job, I'd wear her pearls for luck. When I was in a serious car accident, my mom knew it was my Great Aunt who saved me. It may seem fantastical, but it's nice knowing that she's still, in a way, around.

Today, as I drove home through Tropical Storm Fay I thought of her. I saw her face as I drove over the glass like streets coated in water. I thought of her accent, very heavy New York Jew, as my car was slightly pushed by the winds. And I thought of her optimism as cars flew past me on the interstate. Cars passed by in both lanes but I knew her persistence, much like the winds of a hurricane, would keep them away from me. And like the five dollars I always knew would be there for me, I knew I would get home okay.