A Tribute to My Aunt -------- (read at her memorial service in NY on Feb. 28th, 2026)

Written By: Liz Calloway

I wish I could be there with you today.
My body and circumstances will not allow me to travel, but my heart is in this room.

My Aunt ------ was the brightest star in my life.

Her love did not arrive with conditions. It did not narrow when challenged. It did not cool with disagreement. It simply stayed.

She listened in a way that settled you. Not listening to reply. Not listening to correct. Just listening to understand. When she saw something I could not yet see, she gently redirected me, and I followed her guidance because I knew it came from care, never control.

She lived her faith the way it was meant to be lived. Quietly. Generously. Without using it as a measuring stick. She did not preach love. She practiced it.

Across an ocean, we built a rhythm. Video calls that stretched across time zones. Messages about small things that were never really small. The ordinary details of daily life became sacred because we shared them. That constancy was its own kind of devotion.

On Messenger, I saved her name as “Badass Aunt.” That is who she was to me. Strong. Unshakeable. Fierce in spirit. She called me her “Awesome Niece.” It was our simple exchange of courage, a way of reminding one another that we were capable, even on days that did not feel that way.

Until a few years ago, she always asked about me first. That was her instinct. To make space for others before taking space herself.

There were days when her body demanded more than it gave. On those days, she would ask me to sing. Sometimes I would read. Sometimes I would simply remain on the line so the quiet did not feel heavy. We did not need many words. Presence was enough.

She was small in stature, dimples softening her smile, but her resilience filled every room she entered. There was steel beneath her gentleness. A steadiness that did not waver.

My earliest memories with her taste like salt air and freedom. Sandcastles collapsing into laughter. Running wild with --------, who never once let me play the female part in our childhood dramas. I was always cast into whatever role he imagined, and somehow it felt perfectly natural. -------- has always carried a bright and unapologetic spirit. I loved being near that light. There was something freeing in those years, even before I understood why.

The farmhouse was not merely a house. It was a threshold. The scent of the fields. The wind moving through open space. The hush of stars overhead. When she was home, the doors stood open.

I would call before driving the three hours to -----------, sometimes arriving uncertain, sometimes worn thin. Uncle -------- would greet me with protective humor, asking when I was going to leave that jerk. And she, in her wisdom, would hold the situation with remarkable grace. She embraced every part of my life so I would never feel pushed away, while quietly guarding my well-being. She understood that love keeps the door open.

Inside those walls, I could breathe.

As the years unfolded and our bodies asked more of us than we wanted to give, we became something like soldiers. Many of our challenges overlapped. There was comfort in not having to translate fatigue or frustration. We simply understood.

There was a phrase that would rise between us on the harder days. In June of 2022, after a particularly exhausting stretch, she messaged me about how tired she was of the fight. And then, in language that was so unmistakably her, she wrote, “I just said fuck this and continued on. No surrender!”

No surrender. But resolve.

It became our quiet rallying cry. A declaration that we would not let our bodies dictate the size of our spirits.

She ended that message by saying, “You definitely have many mitigating circumstances. What a pair we are.”

And we were. Two determined women refusing to let difficulty define us.

We spoke just days before I received the message that she had passed. I kept our conversations. Now they feel like small lanterns I can return to whenever I need light.

She has gone on ahead into the next great adventure.

Here in my home in the ----, reminders of her glow. Objects carrying memory. I have chosen to leave the Christmas houses lit, displayed permanently in my glass cabinets, ready for every December. They will not be packed away. They will remain illuminated. A quiet testament that light continues.

Since she passed, there are moments when I sense her nearness. A familiar cadence in my thoughts. A steadiness that feels unmistakable. In some strange and beautiful way, she feels closer than distance should allow.

But what she gave me is not gone.
It is not finished.

It lives.

There is only love.