Sometimes I think people, like ghosts, can get stuck in time.   My aunt existed in some ways like that.  Much like her seventies apartment, Sandy seemed to belong elsewhere, some place out of Dallas, outside of time.  Now while I’m not sure what experience, relationships, or events caused her to stagnate in the seventies, locked in between her wall hangings, paintings, and decorations, the strongest images retained were from her sorority days.  Images of owls gathered from her years as a pledge in Tri-Kappa remained happily hung, solid reminders of the few years she’d spent in Lubbock, entrenched in Southern sisterhood.  Old framed composites of the girls in her pledge class labeled many of the women who continued to stop by that afternoon.  Libby and Celeste told us that Sandy’s friends were her family.  They repeated this many times.  Sandy’s family are her friends.

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