Sophronia Katherine Graves

To my dearest, Aunt Sophie.

Wherever you are right now, this letter comes to you with the utmost sincerity...

It's long overdue.

Although it's been thirty years since you've earned your wings, I can barely go a week without something as simple as an egg reminding me of you. Your cooking was next level. The scrambled eggs with green onions you whipped up anytime of the day were beyond delicious. They were sublime...

Traveling back to my earliest memory of you, when I first realized you were an essential part of my life, I see you walking in the door with a big smile and bags full of gifts. It was the day you bought me an etch a sketch. You know, the flat, red, square thing with a silver screen and two knobs you can twist in back and forth. I spent hours concocting the most indiscernible drawings one would expect from a five-year-old novice. Sadly, I never became the Rembrandt my little mind thought possible; they were all masterpieces to me.

That day finished with an impact. Like the toy itself, it etched a fond memory I keep safe in a cherished sector of my mind dedicated to you. Mental souvenirs.

But you were good to all of us, my three sisters and brother, that is. You treated my mother like she was your own daughter. In fact, you were our grandmother, not biologically but in the true spirit of the title. Our biological grandma, your sister, lived three hundred miles away. You only lived twenty. When we were old enough, my mother would give us fare for the train station and usher us out the door to come see you. It was probably a way to get us out of her hair, but we wanted to go! Visiting you was like entering a whole new world. It felt like a privilege more than anything.

I'm not a hundred percent on the details why my mother moved in with you when she was sixteen. I don't think the conversation ever needed to be discussed. I'm positive it wasn't like those devastating family secrets you hear about. It's just how destiny spun the wheel. In hindsight, I can't imagine how different life would be if I grew up in West Virginia. The majority of our family lived in Ohio. The meaning behind such cosmic arrangements goes much deeper than I can grasp.

A month after the unfortunate death of your husband, my uncle Grover, you asked my mother to move in with you. You didn't want to live alone and my mother knew we would have access to better schooling. As stereotypical as it was, our father was already out the picture. We made the move and the rest is history. Adjusting to the change wasn't difficult at all. Felt like we were there every weekend anyway.

And so, life moved forward. We slowly grew into young adults, latching on to all the little lessons of love you taught in everything you did.

I remember going to church with you every Sunday. From the kindness of your heart, you cooked in the church's kitchen while the sermon took place. Most of the time you paid for the food you cooked and graciously shared it with the devout members. This continued for quite some time.

At 14, you hired me for my first job ever. Not only did you teach me how to cook, but you also taught me the value of self-worth and what it means to be independent. If I work hard enough, I can have what she has. To this day, I swear I can channel your gourmet prowess when I cook for myself and others. You told me I can make anything taste good if I season it correctly. That little morsel of knowledge contained more utility than I ever expected. I'm still requested to cook Christmas dinner every year. I look forward to it.

I wish I would have known how to talk to you about Uncle Grover. He passed away in 1978. I remember a few things about him, like how he called me 'fat daddy'. But I never knew how you felt about losing him. Never thought to ask. I blame it on age. I was too young to understand the gravity of those types of situations.

And then there was Bingo night. It was the one thing you reserved for yourself. We respected that. Every Wednesday evening, we would wait for you to come home smiling ear-to-ear, signifying you won. You liked to gamble. I confess, I also like to gamble but prefer the slot machines and horses. One day though, I have a feeling I'll be the one playing Bingo.

December of 1993 was a tragic turning point. You became ill and went to the emergency room. You never came back.

They kept you there, ran some test and found lesions on your liver. I refused to believe it was terminal, nor did I believe anything could ever happen to you.

Remember how I visited you almost every day for the first two months? I do. After that, the woman who meant so many things to me vanished. You stopped talking and would barely look at me. I didn't care. I talked to you anyway and left in tears every time.

Your departure from Earth came on a memorable date for most Americans. April 4th is the same day of the year Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. You had just turned 76 eleven days earlier. I knew you were in good hands.

In my mind's Hall of Fame, you're sitting there sharing the spotlight with Martin, smiling down on me, knowing the memories of yesteryears are just a thought away.

Love is transcendent, and so were all the remarkable things you did. I'll never stop missing you, Aunt Sophie.

Your grand(son)nephew, Lamar.

PS: You called me Lamah. 💖