River Walks

You never would say goodbye at the end of visits. No, not you. There was always a bony hug and a gentle, "See ya later" in that sing, song cadence you spoke in. Like a story teller. Like someone who had seen a lot of the world and just wanted to spend the rest of his time sitting around a fire, talking. And, goodbye, it was too definite for you. You would see me at the next campfire. At the next game of dominos. The next shared hot meal at Grandma's table. There would always be a next time.

Except now I must cope with knowing there will not be a next time in my life. I suppose that's how you wanted it, to just part ways in this world, knowing you would see everyone in the next. There's a beauty to that and a peace to it, but I am not sure we were ready for you to go. Not so sudden. So soon. Though it seems very fitting of you.

My heart clenches in a painful way that is met with disbelief. It's always hard to loose a family member, and I've always felt especially close to my mother's siblings. You inspired me so much as a child and encouraged me as an adult. When I was little I knew you were different from most people. You never had a need to meet societal expectations and accepted everyone for exactly who they were. I felt brave around you, safe. You were a kindred spirit.

You ran around barefoot and collected rocks just like me. I loved to see what treasures you had found and polished. You knew all of the types and names. You understood the use of every Native artifact anyone in the family found, the way it was made. In fact, you had a collection of your own that you made by hand. Just like our ancestors. At least, that's Mom says. If we are the descendants of a tribe, you were one of the few who lived it. I remember you showing me how to notch an arrow head and walking me through what each tool was. You showed me your collection of ones you'd already made. My favorite was one that looked like a Christmas tree. You said it probably wasn't of any use due to the stone type, but you liked it anyway. Once I started finding artifacts of my own, I would take them to you. You'd turn them over in your hands, sometimes informing me it was just a deceptive rock, and other times telling me what would have been hunted with it. Mom deemed you the expert on them, and so I did as well.

We shared an appreciation for nature, something I think we both learned from Grandma, like the rock collecting. I recall our group walks, talking about trees or shrubs. You'd point out what was edible or not. You lived a lot like a hippy out there in the woods, enjoying the simple pleasantries of your self-made paradise. My brother and I would climb up the hill to your place, curious to see what you had built or found. There was something about the items others discarded you found an ability to appreciate. I fancied myself a 'junk' collector just like you and envied the treasures you would show us.

When I was real little, I remember scolding you often. I'm not sure there was a time I didn't speak my mind openly. I would puff up my chest and say, "No 'moking, it bad for you." That was when I had no 's' sounds in my speech. It's funny how that memory stayed with you forever. Fondly, you would let me know when you were trying to quit again and quote that back to me, laughing. I suppose some things are hard to quit, and that's just as well. It was good to know little Laura stayed in your memories, cheering you on when you felt like it was feasible.

Oh, you had so many nicknames for my curious self. I followed you around whenever I got the chance, ready to see what great mysteries you had uncovered or simply to catch bugs. "Katydid" or "Katiegator" or sometimes just my name, "Ol' Laura Kate". Your dog would always be with us. There were several dogs over the years, as there often are for people. And, each dog you owned adored you endlessly. I would sit with them in the back of your truck, riding across the property or just down the road to a pond or your place. They always knew tricks, like boat rides, and offered the best snuggles to all the children. Nina the Ballerina was my personal favorite.

Though you didn't go to college, at least not to my knowledge, you knew a lot. You liked to read and learn, and understand the world around you. Our interest in history and animals overlapped so we talked quite a bit about those things. Of course, you tended to educate with jokes worked in and sound effects to keep things from getting too serious. Many talked about you being a loner, but I think you just valued the calmness and peace in quiet spaces. I certainly valued it in my teenage years when we would sit in chairs around a fire with some of my other cousins, talking. Sometimes about serious things, and sometimes about nothing.

I suppose you had some secrets. Dark ones that ate at you in ways I will never get to ask about. There are things I would have liked to know as an adult, questions I had that I will never get to ask. It's fitting truly that you take mysteries with you just as you remained mysterious to me as a kid. It's just as well because you did always prefer to think about happier things. You worked enough to enjoy life, and didn't live to be what anyone said people ought to. I think you had more figured out than most of us in that regard. You spent so many of your days walking barefoot in the sand along the river, a beer in hand, ready for a swim if the Texas heat got to be too great. Your dog would be running at your side, dipping in and out of the water.

"Go find Uncle Tim and tell him lunch is ready," was often charged to me as a child because you were always off somewhere in the woods. I would take off with my brother in a sprint, eager to see where we would find you, and what you would be doing. We would all take our time making it back for lunch. The three of us, happy adventurers. There will be no more lunches though.

Instead, this year, your siblings will all line up for the family photo, all eleven of them, and there will be an empty spot where you are missing. And, I suppose this is all that will remain in this world of you, photos and memories. Stories that are told during domino games or over fires while the children of your nieces and nephews run around screaming in delight. You will live on, in some form or fashion, through events and memories and until those moments, I will see you later.