Aunty Fan – The Living Tell on Themselves…

The Clothes Off His Back: A Message from Aunty Fan…

Well, now isn’t this a fine thing to be sitting with on a Sunday? There you are, up to your elbows in your father’s old clothes, shirts still smelling faintly of pipe smoke and aftershave, pockets with old screws and half a Woodbine in then, and where’s the rest of them? Nowhere to be seen, of course.

Oh, but don’t be fooled. Fanny was there. Not today, mind you. Not when there’s work to be done or a memory that might catch you in the throat. No, she was there long before he passed over, every week like clockwork, clearing out what she wanted, smiling to your face, and telling you how hard all this is on everyone. And you, bless your trusting bones, never saw the half of it.

I warned you about her, didn’t I? Said she’d take the lace off the Communion cloth if she thought no one was watching. And Bully? Well, that one wouldn’t stoop for sentiment. He’s too busy counting fences and measuring fields, puffed up like the cock of the walk. But there’s no pocket in a shroud love, and no matter how many bits and bobs they gather, they’ll leave it all behind, same as the rest of us.

You see, it’s not about the clothes. It’s about what those clothes meant. The man who wore them, the hands that stitched the buttons back on, the days they saw and the stories they held. But some folk don’t value stories unless they can sell them or hang them on a wall.

And now here you are, left with the aftermath, cleaning up not just a house, but a legacy. That’s how it goes. The ones who clear out early get what they want. The ones who stay behind get the work and the truth.

But don’t you fret. The dead watch, you know. Your father’s sitting there now, arms folded, shaking his head, probably muttering “typical” under his breath. And your mother’s rolling her eyes the way only she could. There’s no hiding from them now.

So bag up the shirts, bless what’s left, and carry on. Because the real inheritance isn’t in wardrobes or land or china teacups. It’s in knowing who you are when the dust settles. And you, my girl, are made of stronger stuff than either of them ever guessed.

Now pour a cup of tea, take a deep breath, and remember, the living tell on themselves. All you have to do is watch.

– Aunty Fan