Sitting in her armchair by the window, Auntie Jean is wandering gently through time again, alighting here and there on a person or event that, if we’re lucky, we’ll recognise from her reactions. We know that sometimes she calls us by her siblings’ names, sometimes her parents’, and sometimes she thinks we’re friends from her childhood, old colleagues or long lost lovers. The memories are not always happy, and despite our ignorance about the cause, we try to console her when we find her crying into a world that only she can see. Looking after her as she declines is wearing, mentally as well as physically.

I miss her sly wit and caustic commentary on current affairs; she was always the black sheep of the family, bold, outspoken, never conforming to stereotypes or others’ expectations, a bright presence in a world that always seemed to prefer grey conformity. Given the disconnect I’d had with my warring parents, my father’s sister had been a key part of all that shaped me as I grew up. While I wouldn’t be who I am without her, now she isn’t who she used to be.

I wonder idly if she can feel the sunshine streaming in, or whether in her world it’s grey or raining outside. As she slips and slides through the past, I keep watch beside her, hoping that eventually we’ll coincide, and recognise each other one last time.

Alastair Millar (he/him) lives in the Czech Republic and enjoys good books, bad puns, coffee, and traveling. His flash science fiction collection Mars & More was published in 2024.

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