Carolyn Bennett Writer/Comic

I had never seen anyone die.  The rasping I read about in fiction was unmistakable. I was the first to hear it. The other women in the room were chatting, doing their best to keep spirits bright. “Uh, I think it's near.” I moved over to the bedside and listened to my aunt's breathing. My cousin and my aunt's friend gathered close. I held my aunt's hand. Her respiratory system spasmed. It's an uncanny sound, the death rattle. It's a signal for loved ones to ready themselves. * Around the corner from my apartment is an old house. It is home to a couple of professional set designers. This time of year the house is transformed into pure magic. Why they arrange and construct such an elaborate display and rack up enormous electricity bills year after year, I don't know. All I know is that it brings such inexplicable joy to my heart. * Auntie Martha was what my mother would call a “grand dame”. She never had kids...

She used to call me babes. Long straight blond hair, tanned complexion, a few freckles on her nose. Eyes that seemed to change colour in the light. She drove a sports car. A cool chick, the kind I'd hang out with in high school. She'd pick me up at a subway station because I don't have a vehicle. "Hey babes." Upscale casual well-made clothes dressed her thin frame. I loved it when she'd toss her cast-offs my way. The red pants I'm crouching in when you see my Facebook picture, those were hers. She never did wear them. She was the kind of woman (girl) I imagined the Beach Boys sang about I, I love the colorful clothes she wears/And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair. J. reminded me of Jennifer Aniston, of perpetual youth and an endearing lankiness. She was tortured. We sat in her car one night outside a meeting. I watched her smoke one cigarette after another. She told me she gave birth to three triplets who all die...