For the first time in one hundred and one years, the house we were busy emptying would not be presided over by a member of our family. It was the passing of an era, an ending, but also the unpacking of something new.

        When my aunt first spoke of her plans to move from the house in which she was born ninety--four years earlier into a retirement home in another city, I knew that it was a wise decision. Just as certain, however, was the knowledge that the move would be painful both for her and for our family. With the exception of about twelve years when she was away in school or working, the house at 108 West Middle Street had been her only address--for our family, an anchoring place for several generations. Home.

        It does not take much imagination to realize that packing up after so many years was no easy task, neither emotionally nor physically. For several months prior to Thanksgiving, various family members came to lend a hand, working furiously toward that inevitable final day when the then empty house would be swept clean and handed over to its new owners.

        One of the most difficult aspects of the move for my aunt was deciding what to move from her five-bedroom house into her one-bedroom apartment, though there were eager relatives who gladly helped her decide what not to take. To be sure, family members jockeying for prized heirlooms was no pretty sight, but each claim did help narrow my aunt’s decisions. The house and its contents were, after all, part of our shared family history. For the most part, the house’s last occupant seemed pleased with the distribution.

        When the dust settled and my aunt had staked her own claim to the furnishings and personal items she wanted for her new apartment, mostly books and personal papers remained. My aunt taught English on the college level for more than forty years, and throughout adulthood she had traveled widely. In this time she had grown in stature, wisdom . . . and accumulation! It pleased me that dozens of boxes of books and papers, along with some furniture (including several bookcases!) were unloaded at my house, though my new acquisitions required major adjustments.

        I relished the books. Holding them, reading them, turning the same pages she had turned, noting her many margin inscriptions transported me, then as now. Initially, however, her personal papers had a different effect on me. The twelve boxes of letters, lecture notes, photographs, travel memorabilia and so forth presented a challenge the likes of which I had never known. Did I mention that my aunt kept everything?

        I had an uneasy feeling about probing through these boxes, sorting through such personal effects, many of which I considered private. How could I, a mere twenty-four year old great-nephew, presume to unpack another’s accumulations, let alone those of my ninety-four year old heroine? The whole transfer reeked of an invasion of privacy of one who, for much of my life, seemed impenetrable, or at least complex. Yet she asked me to take them; they were part of her gift to me.

        Why she chose to give them to me I still have not completely understood. She had her reasons, if only, as she must have known, that I would have trouble discarding them. I am certain that she thought I would value these items and what they represented enough to save them and eventually to pass them on to someone else. Still, I had difficulty prying beneath the surface of these boxes and for several years kept them stacked, for the most part unopened, in the corner of a spare bedroom.

        It was only after her death on November 4, 1997, that I dared to open and begin to absorb the contents of these boxes, many of which I had helped pack five years earlier. As I opened each box, I began to realize the significance of my aunt’s influence on my life and of the remarkable gifts she had entrusted to my care.

        My relationship with this elder aunt had been strong my entire life, involving many visits and frequent correspondence. She was a true friend and mentor, someone I had always admired and wanted to follow. When I was eight years old, and my father was dying of cancer, my aunt came to stay with our family, lending assistance wherever needed and largely assuming the care of my younger sister and me. She prepared our breakfast, sent us to and welcomed us home from school, drove us to after-school activities, and either read or told us stories at bedtime. She comforted and reassured us when it was apparent that our father was, instead of recovering, growing weaker and weaker. She, along with other family members and friends, supported our entire family and lightened the burdens of a grueling experience. Although I was not old enough to understand everything that was happening to our family during this period, my relationship with her was solidified, and I knew she was someone on whom I could depend.

        Through the years that followed, our relationship and conversations deepened. We still began many of those conversations with my saying, “Tell me about the time when . . .,” but increasingly we tackled deeper subjects. She wanted to know what I was thinking, and often, though always with patience, challenged me to consider another point of view. It was she, more than anyone else, who opened my mind to the mystery of all things and encouraged my curiosity. She questioned my preconceived notions about any subject from academics to religion and everything in between. Because of her openness and gentle nudges, I reshaped and even discarded many of my previously guarded views, a practice I continue today. More valuable than any material inheritance from her is this liberating gift.

        Unpacking these boxes, often with a remembering smile, sometimes with cleansing tears running down my face, I realized that there was more in these containers than papers and photographs. What I was unpacking was our relationship and her legacy to me.

        Among the letters she saved were ones I had written her over the years; the early ones were poorly written accounts of my elementary life, while later ones were, of course, more serious in content and tone. That she saved these letters, in some ways, surprised me, but, in other ways, bespoke of a relationship which was two-sided. I remain heartened at the thought that perhaps she was touched by our relationship in ways similar to my experience.

        I came to understand that her gift of this most intimate collection of memories was the catalyst for an ongoing and ever-deepening bond. Perhaps she knew this would be the case. I know she realized that a relationship such as ours would continue long after her death, that it was too significant to end with her fleeting breath.

        Her gifts to me are still unfolding and are too many to recount here. Suffice it to say that I am ever grateful that her spirit lives in me and others. Every now and then, I unpack these memories; I let them speak once more her loving admonitions and wise counsel never to take anything for granted or at its face value, but to probe deeper with a sense of openness and wonder.