My Tia

 I’ve always believed in telling people how much they mean to you while they're still here, rather than waiting to eulogize them at their funeral.

 

Lately, my dreams have been a vivid tapestry of my youth—revisiting all the scary times, the uncertain moments, and the countless journeys that came with being placed in different homes. It's strange because my dreams are usually filled with quirky images like a dog made out of oranges or some imaginary animal conjured by my whimsical mind. If you've met me, you'd know I'm as quirky as those dreams.

 

When I was young, I temporarily lived with my aunt and uncle. Back when they first got married, my uncle sported a huge afro, earning him the nickname Uncle Sponge. My aunt, well, she was always just Tia Norma to me. They lived in this reddish house connected to her parents' place. To a kid who didn't know much of the world, that house was the epitome of cool. They had the best snacks, the kind that made other kids jealous, and food that felt like warm hugs.

 

One of my fondest memories there involves Hot Wheels—those miniature diecast cars that fueled countless imaginations. They bought me so many, along with a cool carrying case that doubled as a racetrack. My favorite was a red car with the number 12 emblazoned on the sides. It was the first to break, but it raced countless miles in my little hands before it did.

 

My Tia Norma’s dad was always kind and warm. If he ever had a temper, I was shielded from it. He owned a tire shop that I visited a few times. Even as I grew older and started driving, I'd go back there whenever I needed a tire fixed. There was something comforting about that place—it felt safe in a world that often didn't.

 

After my grandparents passed away, I found myself living with my aunt and uncle again, even if just for a short while. This time, my aunt was pregnant with her second child. Despite the added chaos, they made room in their home and hearts for a confused young boy trying to find his way.

 

I always thought my aunt had the coolest job. She worked at Corpus Christi Stamp Works, making rubber stamps, nametags—pretty much anything you could put a name on. She's been there longer than I can remember, and to this day, I still think it's the coolest job.

 

Just before I moved to California after high school, I didn't have a steady place to stay. I couch-surfed, hopping from one place to another. What I never told anyone is that sometimes, when I had nowhere else to go, I'd find myself back at my aunt and uncle's house. I'd sneak through the backyard into their garage, where they stored miscellaneous things and the washer and dryer. There, I'd make a bed out of piled laundry—clean or dirty, it didn't matter—and use a few shirts as blankets. It's a secret I've only shared with two people in my life. If my aunt and uncle ever knew, they never mentioned it.

 

When I returned to Texas from California in 2005, I was still lost. I drifted through difficult situations and tried on different jobs like ill-fitting clothes. I even attempted selling life insurance, despite being painfully socially awkward. My aunt and uncle let me practice my pitch on them. I managed to sell a policy to a neighbor but gave up shortly after.

 

While living in Corpus, I'd often drive past my aunt's workplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of her heading to lunch or leaving for the day. I was in a dark, lonely place and felt too much shame to face them. Yet, just seeing her, even from a distance, brought a small comfort.

 

Throughout my adult life, I'd pop in and out of their lives—just to say hi, to catch up, or to admire the latest home renovations my uncle painstakingly undertook (which, between us, took way too long, but let's keep that our little secret).

 

My thoughts are scattered, and as I sit here writing, I find it hard to organize them. I just know I need to get this out.

 

The point of all this is to remember—to cherish—the moments and the people who've shaped me into who I am today.

 

My aunt has been facing some health issues. She hasn't made them public, so I'll respect her privacy. But knowing she might not be here to see me complete my Master's in Public Health fills me with a deep desire to honor her now, while I still can.

 

If you have memories or stories of people you hold dear, please share them with those people. Don't wait until you're reciting them to a room full of strangers, wishing you had said more when you had the chance.

 

Take care of your heart and your spirit.

 

— Julien