There’s a certain group of people in this world whom I like to call “sequin people.” We all know them. My Aunt Marion is one. I knew it from the first time she dropped that tiny, round sliver of silver into my hand. I must have been only five. I remember staring at the little piece of metal that sat in my palm. It was cupped with pleated sides, and, were it not for the pinpoint hole in the center, it might serve well as a tiny bowl that a delicate butterfly might use for sipping.

Even though I was only five when I first watched Aunt Marion sew sequins on my cousin’s satin baton twirling costumes or on my Uncle Bob’s square-dance shirts, I knew that wearing sequins involved work. Sequin by sequin, silver threads laid silver rows, and golden threads laid golden rows. And rows upon rows became designs on costumes that marched in parades and shimmered on the dance floor.

Through the years, I always knew Aunt Marion sparkled. I’d see her in her 30s, 40s, and 50s in skirts with sequined swirls that floated over layered crinoline as she left on Uncle Bob’s arm on Friday nights to dance at any one of the Square-Dancing Clubs in Milwaukee. I’d see Aunt Marion at Christmas and New Year’s and anniversaries— always in sparkly sweaters or shiny gold tops. Sometimes, she wore silver.

And through the years, there were always presents for my daughter and me – shiny presents - rhinestone hearts on silver necklaces, a hand-embroidered red Mexican jacket with the señor in a sequined sombrero and the señorita in a sequined shirt. There were earrings and bracelets that also glittered; the angel pin Aunt Marion gave me to remember Uncle Bob had diamond wings.

 

But it wasn’t until two years ago, when Aunt Marion was 85, that I realized the connection between the sequins, my Aunt Marion’s psyche in wearing them, and the power in doing so.

My daughter was performing with the Mamma Mia tour at the Marcus Center in Milwaukee, and my cousins, college friends, and my Aunt Marion all agreed to meet at the theatre to celebrate the performance together. As my friends and I waited for the rest of the group to assemble, I turned to see Aunt Marion coming toward us from the parking lot in spiky heels that Nicole Kidman might wear. Even in the burnished orange and pink of twilight, Aunt Marion sparkled as she walked toward our group. Her sleeveless top shone with blue, green, red, and silver sequins that danced as she moved. An airiness seemed to sweep over us. Aunt Marion was coming to see her grandniece perform, and it was obvious she was proud.

The next day, as I drove home to Minneapolis, my cell phone rang. There were praises for my daughter’s performance, but in each conversation was something else—some mention of Aunt Marion: “It was so good to see your Aunt Marion again.” “Your aunt looked so beautiful.” “Your Aunt Marion is so cute. How old is she again?”

Aunt Marion has always, and will always, sparkle—for she’s a sequin person. She was the youngest of my grandma’s ten children and once told me her mother was too exhausted to pay much attention to her. Perhaps that’s why she understood, more than most, that life provides enough black all on its own and is in no need of more. Perhaps it is sequin people who realize that we are created from the same star stuff of the universe—and that the reason we were brought into existence is not only to exist, but to shine. Perhaps they feel that when the conductor points to their section of the orchestra, it’s their turn to play their solo with unabashed pride and confidence. But sequin people are more than confident. They are believers; they believe in themselves and in others’ belief in them. They believe that they have the power to light up a room and have no doubt that the room needs light. And it is that belief, in and of itself, that is the light. And even when their light feels as if it’s dimming, sequin people know the show must go on. They know that sometimes the outside light of something as simple as a line of sequins seeps inward.

My Aunt Marion was still shining when I visited her in the ICU when she was 94. I flew from my home in Minneapolis, not knowing what to expect. She looked tiny sitting alone in the large glass-walled room. Even though my aunt and I talked on the phone every Sunday, I hadn’t seen her in several years, and her frailty struck me. I marveled, though, at her wit.

I arrived on a Wednesday, and I mentioned that I had to leave on Saturday. I stuttered out an explanation and said something that suggested I was happy that my husband, Mike, “let” me come. “Why wouldn’t he?” she asked. I can still smile at that moment.

We had short visits each day—lovely visits, though communication was becoming more difficult with each one. I arrived early Saturday morning to say goodbye. By now, my Aunt Marion was in bed, hooked up to all kinds of equipment. She couldn’t hear the nurse or me anymore, and I wrote a few questions with a dark magic marker. She shook her head to answer. The nurse came in to give her yet another shot. I heard my aunt whisper in her ear. “You’re so good to me.” When I told her I had to leave now to catch the plane, she reached for my hand, pulled it to her heart, and held it there for a long, long moment.

The halls leading to the elevator seemed devoid of sound and felt cold and starkly white. I made my way to the rental car in the hospital lot and rode to the airport.

I looked for a seat away from the other passengers in the boarding area when my phone rang. It was my cousin, Joan. “I’m glad I caught you, Billie. I was just about to leave for the hospital when they called. My mom just passed away.”

There was nothing more we needed to say. Before I put my phone back in my purse, I glanced at the time. It was an hour after I had left the hospital.​​