The Healing Journey

June 14, 2026

A Final Absolution

By Patricia Martin

Aunt Catherine was a relative on my father’s side, perhaps a cousin once or twice removed. But she was on the fringe of the family as she was never at holidays, and the times I remember seeing her were either in her driveway or at church.

She was one of my father’s elementary school teachers, who brought fear and dread into the hearts of kids with her humorless, strict ways. She was a large figure of a woman and quite formidable.

For some reason, she seemed to take a shine to me, always pinching my cheeks and giving me compliments, much to the chagrin of my sister, who she’d look at and say, “Don’t worry, you’ll grow and get there someday too.”

So I had peripheral dealings with her, a remote periodic relationship. But she had a reputation for being unpleasant, self-contained, and not open-hearted or generous. She never married and did not seem to have close ties with anyone.

She was also the wealthiest relative, and I recall hearing quite miserly except with the church. In fact, my cousin Robert tried to indoctrinate himself to her, acting like Eddie Haskell on “Leave it to Beaver,” hoping she’d leave a chunk of money in her will for him. She did not. She left it all to the church when she died.

I had karma with Aunt Catherine. One of my favorite aunts had a stroke and was in a nursing care place in New Canaan. I went to see her, and knew Aunt Catherine was there too, so I went upstairs to pop in to see her.

Rather than the bigger-than-life imposing woman I expected to see, there was a tiny little skeleton of a body wrapped in sheets with wild, sparse gray hair. I was taken aback but approached her from the side. I bent down and said, “Hi, Aunt Catherine, it’s Patty Ann.”

Suddenly, her boney hand shot out of the covers and clutched my arm, drawing me closer. Then, she proceeded to babble on and on with what I can only say was giving me her confession — all her regrets, how she wished she’d lived a different life, been nicer and kinder, etc. I was blown away and just listened. When she finished, I offered what I hoped to the best of my ability was absolution, the balm of forgiveness. She sighed, let me go, closed here eyes, and went to sleep.

Who was I to give absolution? No one. I was a just a witness and wanted to offer her some kind of comfort. It was a powerful experience. I am not sure but, I believe I was about 30ish when this happened. And I felt, and still do feel, it was providential for me to be a part of the little time she had left on Earth.

(Writer Patricia Martin lives in upstate Connecticut. Her prose and poetry have appeared in many publications, and she is author of “The Right Side of Forty: Celebrating Timeless Women.”)

***