Today I’m back in North Carolina visiting my parents, and I made a stop I try to make when I’m in town—Stokes Life Brite in Danbury, where my Aunt Dean lives. She’s been there for over five years now. Aunt Dean doesn’t walk anymore, but she’s healthy overall and sharp as ever—she knows all the scoop and is always happy to share it. I always leave feeling a little more enlightened after spending time with her.

For the past three years, she’s shared her room with a young woman we’ll call Emily. Emily’s only 25 and has been battling brain cancer. In all the times I’ve visited—more than half a dozen—Emily had never once spoken a word to me. Until today.

As I walked into the room, I handed each of them a hot dog from the Red Top Café in Sandy Ridge. Just two—one for each of them.

Emily looked up and, for the first time, said, “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

I blinked. Was this the same Emily?

Then she asked, “How old are you? About 30?”

I laughed. “No, I’m 62.”

She looked me up and down, then said, “Well, you don’t have any wrinkles.” She squinted at me, clearly not quite buying it.

“Good genes,” I said.

Aunt Dean chimed in, “Keith, you made it to 62.”

That seemed to satisfy Emily—only then did she finally relax about my age.

But Aunt Dean wasn’t done. “Yeah, he ain’t been here. You were here last April and haven’t been back since.”

“I think I’ve been here since then,” I offered.

“No, you haven’t.”

“I saw you at Uncle Obie’s funeral in January.”

She wasn’t letting it go.

“Well… maybe I don’t remember,” I said.

Emily, now fully warmed up, said, “Are you having memory problems? They have those pills on TV—you should try some.”

I couldn’t tell if she was pulling my chain or being serious. Probably both.

Then, out of nowhere, Emily said evenly, “This is my third time with cancer. I’m afraid to die.”

Just like that—casual, even-keeled. And before I could fully respond, she rolled right into telling me about where she went to school and her learning disability.

I was sitting in a metal folding chair between their beds, in what used to be a hospital and now serves as a nursing home. The space felt worn but familiar.

I paused. We were maybe two feet apart. I said quietly, “Many of us are.”

She heard me. Didn’t stop, didn’t dwell. But she heard me. It was just what was on her mind. Open. Honest. Transparent. Like she’d decided she didn’t need to pretend with me anymore.

She told me about caring for her aunt who had cancer, about her love for cooking—especially these wrap-style concoctions she likes to make. She was animated and sharp and funny.

Even Aunt Dean, who normally narrates every moment, was listening.

I realized then: Emily had been listening all along, even during the visits when she said nothing. She explained that when she first arrived, she couldn’t talk much at all. That must’ve been why she never spoke to me—though she and Aunt Dean clearly had their own rhythm.

Emily said Aunt Dean was her best friend. That meant something—Aunt Dean had always struggled with roommates, but somehow an 84-year-old Black woman and a 25-year-old white woman had found a bond that worked.

At one point I asked Aunt Dean about one of her former roommates—the one who used to take her clothes off just to be naked. “Is she still here?” I asked.

“No,” Aunt Dean said. “She passed on.”

Emily jumped in with a wild story of her own: “My aunt was in a nursing home in King,” she said, “and there was this woman who’d strip naked and walk down the hall with her walker. And this little man—five foot two, about my height—he’d follow her in his wheelchair everywhere she went!”

I was doubled over laughing.

Eventually we got to talking about the upcoming family reunion in August. Aunt Dean said last year it got too hot and made her sick. I told her I’d bring her a fan this time. Emily, still rolling, added, “They’ve got those cooling towels for your neck—they show them on TV. And those little handheld fans too.”

She had solutions.

As I got ready to leave, Emily thanked me for the hot dog and started unwrapping it. Aunt Dean was still laughing and talking as I made my way to the door.Then, with her trademark mix of warmth and sass, she called after me,
“Don’t be gone so long this time, Keith.”

As Best as I Remember It.