Watching the sunrise over Aransas Bay and thinking about a sunrise 40 years ago over the Gulf. I stood between my parents’ folding chairs on the deck of a weathered beach house as a V of pelicans flew by like remnants of pterodactyls. I unrolled a cinnamon roll straight from the oven. Standing near them with the pink sky overhead and a warm roll on my tongue I felt a peace that comes only rarely.

I don’t spend as much time with my kids as my mom spent with me. Yesterday, the first day of our short vacation, I yelled a lot. I’m hoping for better today. Hoping to recreate for them some of the memories I have, some of that serenity and peace.

Once on Saturday Night Live, Chris Farley did a bumbling interview with Paul McCartney, where Chris says, “Remember when you were in the Beatles and you did that album Abbey Road? At the very end of the song, it goes ‘And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.’ Is that true?”

And Paul McCartney patiently answers, “Yes, Chris, in my experience it is. I find the more you give, the more you get.”

Chris Farley’s question was meant to get laughs, but now I’m thinking that it was actually a deep and profound question.

I was listening to Abbey Road on the way home from my aunt’s funeral yesterday. “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” I started wondering, is that true?

How do you measure someone’s love, or the impact that person has had on your life? My aunt was a matriarch in a time when those are few and far between. I can’t measure her influence on me because it is so ingrained — it’s in my bones and blood.

It shows up in different ways. Girl is named for my aunt. I was unsure whether to buy this house, until I saw that it backs up to a brown muddy river that looks very much like the bayou near hers. I can trace the roots of my beliefs to her.

I can’t answer the question as easily as Paul McCartney did, because I don’t think that love is always an equal equation. Sometimes the love you take is immeasurable.

Golden slumbers fill your eyes. Smiles await you when you rise. Sleep pretty darling do not cry. And I will sing your lullaby.

As a general rule I try not to cry in front of my kids. Once they saw me cry because I couldn’t find my wedding ring. I burst into tears so fast it surprised even me. Usually I hide in the bathroom or wait until they’re fast asleep before I have myself a good cry.

But with my aunt’s passing, we’ve all lost someone dear to us and they’ve seen me cry plenty in the last few days. Their reaction to my tears has been telling for me.

Girl comforts me the way I comfort her when bad thoughts grip her at bedtime, when her mind seizes on some incident of the day and won’t let go.

“Don’t think about sad things,” Girl tells me, patting my shoulder. “Think about something happy. Like when we were in the swimming pool. That was happy, right Mom?”

Boy comforts me the way I comfort him when he cries about Guatemala. He hugs my waist hard and wipes my tears with his finger. “It’ll be okay, Mom,” he says.

So I see that nurturing can be a two-way street between mother and child. Sometimes it’s reassuring to take comfort from a small, firm hand.

My great aunt passed away last night. She was almost 89 years old, but still, I don’t think it was her idea to go.

In fact, I can picture her at Heaven’s Gate, arms crossed, arguing with St. Peter.

“You go tell Him I’m not ready,” she says. “Tell Him I want to go home.”

“You are home,” St. Peter says.

“No I’m not. There’s still plenty going on down there and I need to know what happens.”

“Darlin’,” St. Peter says, putting his arm around her. “Things were fixing to get hard down there for you.” (Yes, St. Peter talks like a Texan.)

“What do you mean?” my aunt asks.

“You were facing heart surgery. That’s a hard road for an 89 year old body,” St. Peter says. “You wouldn’t have been able to go to any more weddings or any more baby showers. You wouldn’t have been able to get your hair fixed or your toes done any more.”

“Oh,” she says.

“And He knows how much you loved that house. He thought it’d be much better to take you from there than from some strange hospital room.”

“Oh, I see,” she says.

“Besides that, your new house is ready now.”

“My new house?” my aunt says, perking up.

“Yes. You see that man over there?” he says, pointing to a tall young man in an Army uniform.

“Yes, I remember him,” my aunt says, putting her hand to her mouth in surprise.

“He’s been working on your house for 12 years. He just finished the green house today. So it’s all ready for you to move in.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “It’s about time he did something without me having to fuss at him about it.”

“Come on now,” St. Peter says, putting his hand on her back. “Your mama just put a pan of lasagne in the oven and your dad’s got a pot of crabs boiling.”

“But what about the ones down there?” my aunt says. “They still need my advice.”

“They’ll get by,” St. Peter says. “And Darlin’ you’ll see them all again soon enough.”