The Stars Look Very Different Today

RIP Jeanie Donnelly. She was the best.

This week my Aunt Jeanie passed away. It feels impossible because life is one big party, and Aunt Jeanie never left parties early. Complications related to Alzheimer’s, however, had other plans.

Aunt Jeanie was just the best. She was an omnidirectional enthusiast, someone who never saw a volume dial that didn’t need turning up. From a young age, my sister, cousins and I all came to know Aunt Jeanie as “The Cool Aunt,” a title the whole extended family seemed to agree was totally fair.

She was the first adult I knew who made having fun all of the time a real priority. She tailgated at Jets games with strangers and saw so much live music that I bet she could’ve filled a water silo to the lip with concert ticket stubs. She gave me many incredible gifts, but a thirst for life tops the list.

The eldest of six with an impish spirit, Aunt Jeanie was the architect behind god-knows how many practical jokes and pranks, many of which I know for a fact she pulled off well into middle-age. When I was 9, she learned I was obsessed with Blink-182 and that my parents wouldn’t let me get Enema of the State since it had a Parental Advisory sticker on it. So instead of finding a censored version, she snuck me her CD copy of it, without the case so I could listen incognito. It became one of the most important albums of my life, and also the one that taught me all the profanity I know, all thanks to Aunt Jeanie. Sorry Mom!

At Thanksgiving, Aunt Jeanie never asked me about school — she was more interested in hearing about the latest skateboard trick I learned or what new bands I was listening to. When my sister got a college internship in New York City, Aunt Jeanie opened up her apartment to her for the summer, no questions asked. These are but a handful of the stories I can call to mind right now: I’m certain my cousins have enough stories of Aunt Jeanie’s generosity to fill a book, and knowing this makes her loss that much more crushing.

That sinister disease robbed us of many years with her, and all I can think about is how unfair it all is. No late-night David Bowie or Queen sing-along will ever be the same without her.

Aunt Jeanie may have left this party on earth, but I’d bet on her spirit being like Major Tom’s. She’s stepped out of the capsule into space, floating in a most peculiar way.