Kiara Pelasio

She would ring my dad on occasion and I would say hey and all that jazz, briefly tell her about school and then say bye. I remember the last time I saw her was way back when I was in primary and she had given me a cactus plushie because I liked the feeling of it. Which was so nice, she had a watermelon plushie too and she said "We can match!" So we did. The day we heard news of her passing, my dad was in the lounge and I was in the dining room looking at him. His eyes were watering and I remember asking him "are you okay?" I still remember the shake in his voice and the tears when he then said "Your Aunty Ana died." I cried, as one would. But I knew that I was crying because I didnt get to know her before she passed, I didnt get to know her as an aunty but I got to know her stories that were told by other people rather than her telling me herself. So I talk about her, I think about her, I dream, I cry, and I remember her like I was close to her. So I do this one last thing for you. My Aunty Ana. I love you.