You’re easy to remember

You died one day in October.

I remembered it every time they showed clips of the regular season game between the Bills and the Chiefs during the week leading up to the AFC Championship.

Although they did it as a preview to that same matchup, I remember watching that Monday night game during the regular season with other things on my mind: you were barely hanging on in a hospital far away.

I wasn’t even happy while watching that game when Josh Allen hit Stefon Diggs in the corner of the end zone on a pass so tight, the announcer casually called it “incomplete” before saying “oh, wait” with some excitement after a second look. That was “the” play for my team they always showed weeks later to represent Buffalo’s effort that night.

It is now “the” play that makes me think of you.

See, earlier that day, as my mind was on that Monday Night game against the defending Super Bowl champs, I was washing my truck and listening to music on a Bluetooth speaker connected to my phone, which was set to the YouTube Music app that selects songs on its own, based on my previous song selections, songs I’ve skipped and songs I’ve listened to all the way through.

Brad Paisley’s “Letter to Me” came on and as I’ve done a hundred times before, I listened to it closely, as it’s one that strikes a chord with my heart. All 100 times I’ve listened to it, the part at the end about hugging his aunt every chance he gets has made me think of my late aunt Sonnie, who was a very important part of my life at the age of 17 — the age Paisley is singing about.

Except on this day, for some reason, it made me think of hugging you.

It was a chilling feeling that stopped me in my tracks as I washed my truck. It was 2:34 p.m. I remember this specifically because the feeling was so strong that I felt compelled to check my phone to see if anyone was trying to call me about something serious.

Ninety minutes later, my mom was calling me to share the bad news: you were unresponsive in the hospital. You were gone, then brought back by medical staff. Now only machines were keeping you alive.

There is no doubt in my mind you were gone at 2:34 p.m. — and you said goodbye to me then.

SO I HAVE THINGS TODAY THAT HAUNT ME: The morning of that call, when I checked my work cell and saw you had texted me over the weekend but I did not respond.

I had a decent reason — decent and solid, but not a good reason, as I reflect on it. It was my work cell phone you messaged and I do not always keep that with me over the weekend. I usually have my personal cell for that.

“Damnit, man,” I say to myself about that today. “Either carry both phones with you all the time or get rid of the personal one.

“You can’t expect people to know your ‘work cell during the week and personal on the weekend’ phone schedule.”

I will spend the rest of my life thinking about how I did not respond to the last text message you ever sent me.

— — — — — —

IT IS MORE THAN THAT, THOUGH.

I loved my aunt as much as I have any member of my immediate family. Mom and her were close. Sure, they fought, but overall, they were super close … which made my aunt a big part of my childhood who — later — was a big part of adult life.

Even when I moved 700 miles away, we stayed in touch. This got easier with social media, even though she was always a “closet” fan of Facebook. This boded well for our relationship, as I have also been an avid Facebook user — actually proud of the fact I was on it when it was open only to those with an active college e-mail address.

I used to plant flowers around our house specifically for her to see on Facebook. I used to till rows in our garden that were neat and straight just to read her reaction on Facebook because I knew she was the only person in my life who shared my appreciation for straight rows in gardens.

I actually once seriously considered moving back to my hometown so I could achieve the following three things: attend Buffalo Bills games regularly, help my kids build tunnels in the snow like I did as a kid and — specifically — help my aunt with her garden, yard and build wood shop things for her to paint/stain/sell.

I never actually settled on “no” to that.

— — — — — — — —

Do you remember how we would talk for hours when I was driving somewhere for work? I remember sitting at a gas pump somewhere in Georgia one time because I needed to pump gas but knew as soon as you heard me doing that you’d say, “Well, I guess I’m going to get going.” I was on my way to Nashville that night and really didn’t have a reason to hurry, so I just sat there talking to you about health, gardens, kids, flowers, birds, trees, Uncle Ron, the fur house, Butch, your neighbors, your church, diabetes care, the blue roof on your house, the bear you scare away with kitchen utensils …

I sat in parking lots for our talks far more than you’d care to know. We always started talking while I was on a long drive and I would think we’d be done by the time I arrived but we never were. So I’d just sit in the parking lot of whatever business or school I’d be going to visit for work, believing we were “wrapping up,” but we rarely were. Something would physically have to happen that to make us stop going on to the next topic — a dying phone battery, someone else calling, a near car accident, loss of service.

The thing I loved most about you is your commitment to the present. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t responded to a Facebook comment you left on a picture of the kids or never responded to a text … you and I were talking at that moment and that was all that mattered.

You had your way, though, about letting me know you weren’t happy when you’d send one of the kids a card and I didn’t have them call. You didn’t do this to reprimand me — you did this because teaching children to acknowledge when someone had done something nice to them was important to you … and you wanted to make sure I was teaching that to my kids.

It was the definition of “simple love.” Not shiny things — gestures and heart. It was the thought that counted.

This is why I had no problem sending my daughter to stay with you for weeks at a time during the summer, back when she was small and I didn’t trust her with anyone for that long. Other than my mom and dad, you were the only person I trusted to not just babysit, but actually care for her. She’d return to me happy to be home, but sad to be leaving you. Circumstances blurred my mother’s role as her grandmother — she sometimes felt like a mother to her — but you always gave her that feeling of being spoiled and the only one in her life.

I could go on about the way you were able to achieve this in the eyes of all of your actual grandchildren simultaneously, without making any feel like he or she was being overlooked, but that would take over the Internet.

— — — — — — —

I miss my aunt and I haven’t said it yet. I haven’t properly dealt with it in the four months she’s been gone. I think about it often; I discuss it with myself on long drives.

But I can’t bring myself to look at her Facebook page. I can’t bring myself to delete our text message conversation thread on my phone. I keep thinking “I need to call Annie” when I see something on a long drive for work that makes me think of her.

I haven’t posted a blog about it until now — and this is how I deal with things. It is my “session” with a counselor.

Just recently I made something in my wood shop and found myself thinking I had to text her a picture of it. She would say how pretty it was and add an exclamation point. Then she would relate it to one of my kids or Hollie, saying how good it will look somewhere in our house. If I were lucky, she’d tell me about something similar she’d found in one of the little shops where I grew up or how her husband found something she was going to restore to end up similar to what I had made.

That’s what she always did, most hours of the day, no matter how late or how early in the day … but not anymore.

I think this is the first time in my life that a relative has died and I can actually feel him or her watching me; I feel a presence when I think I am alone. It’s comforting sometimes, but it’s still mostly sad, as it’s a reminder she is gone and I was never able to do the things for her I told myself 1,000 times I wanted to do. Like when my grandmother passed, it came as a shock because I never thought it would ever happen.

But it did.

It has.

And I struggle to find peace in that.