People are probably tired of reading depressing little blogs, maybe as much as I am of writing them. But I do find out that they help.

Most people who follow me know that my Aunt Rosalie died back in September. The initial sting has gone down a little bit, but there are times when I miss her terribly so.

Last night was one of those nights, heading into today as well.

Last night Johan Santana pitched the first no-hitter in Mets history. I waited my whole life to see that happen. So did my aunt, but she wasn't around to enjoy it. My Aunt was always a huge Met fan, in fact most my family is (but I am sure my mother, brother and sister are Yankee fans because it would fall into the pattern of them always doing things to bother me). There are some good memories of my Aunt that revolve around the Mets. There is the unwavering love/infatuation that she had for Rusty Staub (though I never understood it, but what I remember of him was that he was heavy and in the twilight of his career, but was always good for a pinch hit. With him it always seemed to be either a homerun or a single.) There was the time she wanted to surprise me by taking me to a Mets game, we took a bus and wound up getting lost and missing the first couple of innings (should've taken a cab, oh, and why would you need to climb stairs in order to get to a huge stadium and how did we miss Shea in the first place). Then you can't forget the 86 world series, when the Mets fell behind in the 6th game I shut the TV off and went to my room and pouted. My Aunt had faith and turned the TV back on and I came running back when I heard her screaming and cheering. It went beyond that too. We spent a life time talking about the Mets.

Last night I had such an urge to call her. To talk about Johan and the no hitter that finally came. I can't help but tear up knowing that I can't. I hope in time that the pain ebbs just a little, where I am not affected as much, but I don't see that time ever coming. Thanks for listening (reading).