Thinking again

While driving, I kind of go into a different place. Full of thoughts. I just focus on the road and my interior voice.

Today I was thinking about my Uncle John. He died when he was 33, and I was 19. He was probably my favorite relative for most of my childhood. It had everything to do with our ages. It had everything to do with his sense of humor. He was the first to make me laugh in my favorite way. He was my first crush (which is probably high in the ick factor- but was innocent enough- I would latch myself to his leg, screaming, "Marry me! Marry me!" He would just laugh. I hadn'ta clue what marrying entailed. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.). By the time I grew up, things had changed. Not for the better, for John.

He is gone, and the only connection that I have with him is in my memory. I keep thinking that the little pieces that I have are all that is left, and probably need to be cast out into the world. Because I treasure them. And hoarding isn't going to bring him back.

Because of him I loved men who could make me laugh. I married the best of the bunch. I loved brown eyes. He was the only one in the family with brown eyes. I married a man with brown eyes. I love to bask in their warmth. Because of him, I refused to become dependant upon my parents for a living after college. Because of him I was afraid of drugs for many years. I still haven't done much. Very, very little. And that's ok. Because I see the attraction. And just don't have the time for all of that. Because of him, I made the mistake for many years of keeping some of the people who love me best at arm's length. Because to trust was to deny his tragedy. And to trust was to invite his weakness.

Because of him, I refused to be ground under. I refused to deny my anger. I refused to curl up into a little ball and die a little.

We buried him the day that the Challenger blew up. It was a crappy day, pretty much universally.

During his mass, Father Courtney kept talking about sin. I hated him for implying that John was bad. That's what I heard. I remember his bald head becoming mottled and red during the mass. I see now that he was trying to master his own emotions. That the grief that we felt extended to him too. And he had only one gift to offer us- his faith. And for me that wasn't enough. I just wanted the John of my childhood back. But he died many, many years before. The sad, angry, beaten, lost man who died a few days before we buried him wasn't the man I had been so in puppy-dog love with.