My aunt Roxanne died on Sunday, August 30th. She was the fourth of seven brothers and sisters, a first-generation Chinese American who seemed to forge her own path. Some of her siblings made larger lives for themselves but Roxanne and her husband Jimmy chose to build something quieter.

I didn’t see Roxanne all that much, mostly at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I wouldn’t claim we were close, but I never felt like we were strangers. Though our family doesn’t do everything right, there’s a strong sense of familiarity and comfort among us despite the miles and time that keep us apart. Even at larger family gatherings, I remember chatting with her at the kitchen table. She’d ask me about school and, as I got older, work. I always felt like she really wanted to know about my life — not just the empty “how-are-you’s” that tend to fill conversations, but the details, too. She had a distinct voice I can hear in my head now, soft and almost sing-songy with a great New York accent.

Rocky and Jimmy never had kids, but they always had animals. I remember them bringing their dog Max, and later Jackson, over to my grandparents’ house like a member of the family. This was in the ‘90s when dogs were not yet elevated to the “family member” status they rightfully have today. My specific memories are fuzzy here, but I like to think this normalized a flexible idea of what “family” could mean . We talked about the dog just like other aunts talked about my cousins, and there was space for it. When I finally got a dog of my own (Spencer, of course), I knew I could share that extra photo or tell one more story and that she’d want to see and hear it.

Aside from being my first dog parent role models, Rocky and Jimmy were also kind of cool. Jimmy had long hair, not the craziest thing for some families but a little wild in mine. He played guitar and had an XBox. My parents didn’t really have “fun” hobbies, so this stood out to me. When Jimmy found out I played guitar, he lent me his Ovation Acoustic Electric for a semester and even offered to buy me a new guitar (my mom said I could not accept the latter offer).

Like kids tend to do with their aunts and uncles, I always thought of Rocky and Jimmy as a pair and it seemed they were more whole together than not. So when Jimmy unexpectedly died from cancer too young a decade ago, the family knew it would be extra hard for Roxanne. I get the sense they were right. I’m not sure whether I showed up less to family gatherings or if she did (probably both), but I saw her less often in recent years and her light was a little dimmer when I did.

I last saw Rocky in person at my grandfather’s funeral two years ago, and we had our last conversation with family over FaceTime during the pandemic. Her memory was failing, but I never fully witnessed it; she seemed like the same person to me, although I know that wasn’t at all the case for family members who helped care for her towards the end. All in all, I didn’t know my aunt that well, but I’m grateful for those memories. They weren’t hard to recall, which makes me wonder how much she and Jimmy may have impacted me or planted the seed to break free of norms: my shaved head, tattoos, three dogs. I so deeply wish our family could gather to swap stories so I could learn more about her and celebrate her life, but there’s a pandemic going on. I’ll attend my first (and hopefully last) virtual funeral this Friday, and I hope we can remember her well.