Death came knocking on the family door again. Yesterday, my first cousin once removed, Helen, the daughter of my grandmother’s younger brother, passed away. She blessed the earth with her presence for nearly 88 years. My connection to her ran back to 1953 when she was designated as the babysitter to me during my grandfather’s funeral right here in Johnson City in the old house that stood next to where my current home now stands. At least that’s the way I remember the story, and she was way too polite to ever correct me.

I always knew her as Baby Helen, because her mother’s name was Helen, as well. It seems like a nickname that would be hard to bear, but I never recall her speaking out against it. When we moved back to Texas in 1962, after my dad’s retirement from the Navy, we stayed with her mother and father and they helped us get our feet on the ground. In addition to being a good cousin, Helen was the best friend of my aunt Helen, the wife of my dad’s younger brother. My aunt passed away last March, just as the pandemic was getting started. Now all three Helens are gone, and to twist the story just a bit, cousin Helen’s middle name is Irene, which happens to be my mother’s name. Fancy that.

Anyway, the cousin is gone, and there’s another hole in my heart, and it really doesn’t feel like I have enough heart left to have more holes punched in it. But I suspect hearts are more resilient than we imagine, partly because they have to be. After all, one of the realities of age is watching your peers and loved ones pass on, until one day it’s your turn, and they turn out the lights and you become a picture in someone’s memory book and a spot in the ground that people come visit once in a while. And speaking of pictures, that’s her on the far left in the picture at the top, and my aunt is there beside her, and now they’re together again.