I remember watching Aunty Kay wearing large, dark sun glasses , while being whisked away by police men on our brown, vintage, button-turning, big-back TV.

It appeared to be hundreds of people angrily chanting something I couldn’t understand .

She looked tired, sad and tense, which, stunned my threshold to interpret the events unfolding in front of my tiny eyes.

I was 3 years old.

My memory of Aunty Kay is vague but I later learnt she baked the best cookies for me and I always enjoyed going to her house every Saturday morning. It was always a special occasion for my mom, Grandma and me.

“She’s going to Prison baby”, my mom uttered while I sat on the dusty red carpet , staring at the televised showing of her entry into prison one afternoon.

Years later I learnt that Aunty Kay , a victim of domestic abuse, had chopped her husband into multiple pieces and burnt his remains on a farm, disposed with tire and cow manure.

She was found guilty of murder and was sentenced to death (and spent 10+ years in Prison).

I saw Aunty Kay at a Church gathering in the early 2000’s where my grandmother and her exchanged numbers and tried to to keep in touch.

But things were never the same.

I resent that Grandma never attempted to visit her best friend while she was in prison and I often questioned my own empathy towards Aunty Kay, a murderer but loving family friend.

Early this year my elderly, Christian, 82 year old grandmother called me frantically asking me to store a very important contact into her phone. She seemed excited and I was curious. She was not a fan of smart phones and feistily held no bars advising people that she will answer calls when if she felt like it.

This must be someone important, I figured.

“What’s her name”? I asked.

“Kay Wrench.” she uttered.

It was Aunty Kay.

I pondered my feelings of excitement.

For me, Aunty Kay represented images of sweet, colorful cookies with snowman frosting on top. She was a beacon of fun, play and happiness in my eyes.

But in reality, Aunty was a murderer.