The Suitcase

When I was just a kid a suitcase was delivered to our house. I did not understand the significance of the suitcase or what it represented at the time. I saw it several times and every time it appeared it brought nothing but anger to our house. It contained clothes, but I could not understand why these clothes created so much anger. Not only with my mother, but also with my aunt who lived next door. I had no idea whose suitcase it was and why old dresses, shoes, coats and bags could cause so much anger. 
 
I had two aunts in the town I grew up in, as well as some uncles, but the uncles were clearly not interested in the suitcase and its contents. Nor was one of the aunts. It was my mother and the aunt next door and a third sister who lived in the capital whom I had never met who somehow created this anger about the suitcase and its contents. 

It eventually turned out that I had several aunts I had not met. The owner of the suitcase was my rich aunt. 
 
Unlike my mother and all my other aunts and uncles, I had one aunt who had married into wealth. The man she had married was also local and did not come from a very rich family, but he had established himself in shipping in New York. It was clearly good times in the business since my aunt was able to run several philanthropic projects amongst the most disadvantaged in Brooklyn. 
 
The story of the suitcase started when my rich aunt died in the 70s. She was the oldest and my mother the youngest of eight siblings. My rich aunt had no children of her own and with the big age difference to my mother, at some point she wanted to adopt her younger sister and let her take part in the good times in New York in the 30s. Nothing came of this, and my mother stayed in her home village, got married and had three children herself. 
 
My aunt stayed in New York and died there. She wanted to be buried in her hometown, so the coffin was transported back in the family’s private plane. My uncle, who was rumoured to be quite an eccentric man, wanted his dear wife to be buried with all her jewellery. I remember my mother saying something about this. Quite a lot and quite strongly as I remember. 
 
That wasn’t the only thing she had thoughts about. My other two aunts also had an opinion about how the dresses, shoes, coats and other personal belongings should be distributed between the sisters. Naturally, it did not end well. The two sisters in the village never spoke to their sister in the capital again for the rest of their lives.  
 
When I have been back in my hometown, I have sometimes visited the family burial site of my aunt’s family. It was a large family burial site that was located on a hill with dozens of gravestones that went back a long time. I can never remember it being well kept, but it had some ancient grandeur about it. The last time I was back there, all the tombstones had been removed and the grave site prepared for a new family clan. They probably know nothing about what the burial site hides besides the obvious. 
 
It was the end of a saga, a childless last family in the lineage whose existence is now erased from our collective memory. 
 
I have an online family tree that is halfway updated. A request has appeared from a woman in New York with the same name as my old aunt. Perhaps their family´s saga is still not quite over. Perhaps I should pack my suitcase and find out more.