Garish.

Obtrusive, bright, and showey.

“Yoooohooo,” Auntie May shrieked as she drove her Hummer up our driveway. She poked her head out the side like an ostrich, revealing a pearl necklace, gold-rimmed glasses, and lipstick that matched the color of her garish vehicle—hot pink. 

“Flordia people,” my brother whispered under a forced smile. 

Auntie May stepped out of the car, gravel crunching under her high heels as she descended upon us. “How are my little pumpkins?” she cooed, her eyes moist with overwhelm. She branded our faces with hot pink lipstick as we thrashed about like cattle, before walking into our house and redecorating it to her liking.

Everyone should have an Auntie May in his or her life. Someone whose garish presence rembles that of a human comet. Someone who lives so completely on their terms as to be oblivious to the very concept of conformity. Yes, her perfume was flammable. Sure, her spray tan was so dark it edged on racist. But I loved her.

And the crocodile incident makes me deeply sad.

Thank you.