This is a picture of my aunt Philippa taken in 2009. She died over the weekend, on Saturday. She had a rather rapidly developing brain tumor and now she is no longer with us. I’ve been thinking about this picture above, and this story below, since Saturday morning, when I first heard she had died.
She came to visit me in LA in 2009, a couple of months after my Dad died. I was a wreck, but cleaned up my act for her trip. She wanted to “see Los Angeles” which to her meant movie stars and glamour… and as most Angelenos know, that world is but an illusion except to a very select few. We decided to go to my old work, at Kitson, on Robertson Boulevard, in Beverly Hills. Kitson is a ridiculous celebrity obsessed boutique that I’ve written about before. I had no idea where else to take her.
I remember we’d spent most of the day trying to cheer her up. She’d gotten in some sort of fight with her husband before she’d left England for her vacation and I remember prior to this photograph she’d been stewing half-jokingly about “not getting to see any real famous people”.
We went into the store and I was showing her around when in walked in some reality TV starlet. I honestly can’t remember who. About a dozen paparazzi appeared at the window (mostly likely called by aforementioned starlet’s publicist) and started taking pictures of (whoever) shopping at Kitson. It was the kind of thing I’d gotten used to working there.
But to Pill it was something else entirely.
"They’re here for me!" she squealed, genuinely elated.
"They are, aren’t they?" I said.
"Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they stay a safe distance," said the security guard. Then my Mom took this picture.
She looked so fucking happy.
Pill really kept the absurdist streak alive in the family. She was very weird, and she knew it, and she never apologized for it. It was the kind of “weird” that was infectious, like a prolonged laughter that never broke nor faded.
Growing up she was always the adult that seemed to truly believe whatever kid game I was playing. To her, the divide between the real world and your imagination was blurred. It made her so, so, so much fun to be around. If you walked into a room that she was in it was like walking into a sandbox. Anything was possible if you had the right kind of eyes, which she did. And I loved that about her. Still do.
You don’t get a lot of time with those you love. You might think you get a whole lifetime with them. And you do. But sometimes even that is never enough.
People have said “I’m sorry for your loss” over the last couple of days. I don’t get that phrase. I ain’t sorry at all. She was fucking magnificent to be around and I’m grateful for the time we had. Wringing hands and crying about it seems a bad way to remember someone so full of weirdness and so full of life.
Life is too short. Keep it weird.
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