Waypoint

In memory of my Aunt

Today - Sunday 7 December here in Australia - is the 99th birthday of my wonderful Aunt, Pat Miller.

Sadly, Pat reached the end of her physical existence just a week ago after a very long, healthy and generally happy life. (So far as I can tell, that is. Pat was never one to complain). It is only 2 years ago that I persuaded her to accept help with her house cleaning, in fact, and with a little help of that kind from lovely people and support from my fabulous Cousin, she lived independently in her home until a final brief illness, so the sadness is simply that we miss her, though it is sadness nonetheless - the sadness we feel for ourselves.

My Mother, her two Sisters and one Brother emigrated with my Grandparents from England after WWII, settling here in Australia, but Pat returned to the UK and lived and worked there until she retired in the mid 1980’s, when she came back to Australia to be close to family.

The photo below is of Pat and her two Sisters - my Mother on the right, who died 11 years ago, and my delightful Aunt Sheila, who is healthy and witty and also living in her own home, as is my Uncle Peter in his.

With permission from my own heart - and in fact at the demand of my own heart - I have celebrated my Aunt’s birthday today by writing a poem about her. With permission of my Aunt Sheila - (we have been swapping emails busily) - the poem, and this photo of the three most beautiful Sisters, now appears below.

I had the deep pleasure of lunch at Sheila’s house just a few days ago. I will be seeing my Uncle at Pat’s memorial service on Thursday, when this poem will be read aloud.

It is both a positive and a negative of self publishing that the writer can choose what is published. Of course, the reader can also choose what to read.

So I offer this poem with that thought but also with the suggestion that life is the one thing we all hold in common, until we reach the end of it, and we all have to find our own meaning and consolation in that.

If you are prepared to read it, this poem is a hint at mine, offered with love to all.

My wonderful Aunts - Sheila at left and Pat (middle) with their Sister Kath, my Mother. Circa 1950

Waypoint

Pat

was never

Patricia. Our Aunt;

our Mother’s much loved

elder Sister living in London

became an identity we created for her -

my own Sister, my Brother and I - pieced together

from the scraps children collect: conversation fragments;

photos seen in albums; birthday cards unerringly dispatched.


One year

she appeared

in person - magicked

into being for one holiday

of sun, Summer, sensible clothes,

polite love, impeccable manners and...

something indefinable. A mystery become

substance. A life - no longer just a circumstance.


Later,

in London,

aged seventeen,

she was family - not

Mother but gentle adviser,

a home cooked meal when I needed one,

a local reference for impossible English banks

and a calm presence, at least in my mind, to rely upon

when hitchhiking, lost, or harvesting grapes in the hot French sun.


But Pat

was a traveller too,

steering her own course

ever, whether Greece, Italy,

or long pre-Instagram Iceland -

taking photos, making friends, keeping

her own counsel always, treating joy or sadness

equally, as she treated others - calmly, carefully, evenly.

Now

As I write

on her 99th birthday

I think of her stubborn nature -

she was, after all, a Miller - but also how

a life is not a linear thing; it is an inter-relation,

a complex linking and a constant sharing, an expansion,

and how my Aunt was always connected, always interested,

always engaged with others, considering, thinking, always planning.

So today

is a waypoint

only - not an ending.

We all have memories;

we have all been changed

and, by being changed, we grow -

new thoughts, new connections, a new relation

with life, with those we meet, and with ourselves also.

All of us here together share something now of Patricia Miller,

Daughter of Josephine and Arthur, Sister of Sheila, Peter, Kath and Les.

Quiet collaborator with life. Urbane adventurer. Precise navigator. My lovely Aunt.

Pat.

Pat in Iceland - 1960’s