Dear Uncle A. There’s a cat on my lap. And I’m crying,
Completely unrelated, but both occurring now and here.
The cat I know. I love. She’s slowing the tears.
But they’re streaming because it’s nearly been a whole year.
A year since you just stopped existing,
A year since we gathered to say a final goodbye.
A year full of good stuff in the meantime, for sure.
But here, a year on, I sit and I cry.
Because it’s a year of Earth’s history without you.
Where your words are not present on the page.
You've got a new grandkid on the way. But you'll never know,
And that fills me with this tsunami of rage.
You've missed some incredible Aston Villa wins,
And you went and died 4 months before the Queen!
They’ll be changing the post boxes soon enough, I guess,
To things my postman uncle will never have seen.
I’m angry. And sad. And confused. And guilty,
About the times where I’m none of those things.
In the moments I’m happy - forgetful even,
As if I’d forgotten that you've gained your wings.
Not that I ever have or possibly could,
It’s more ignorance masquerading as bliss.
I simply set aside that you have died.
So I can pretend you haven't. That you still might exist.
BECAUSE HOW CAN A PERSON JUST STOP?
IN A UNIVERSE WHERE ENERGY IS CONSERVED.
NOT CREATED, NOT DESTROYED, YET YOU'RE NOW NULL AND VOID.
THIS IS NOT THE ENDING YOU DESERVED.
I miss you, I miss you, Uncle Alan.
I know we didn’t see each other all that much.
Months went by before we’d next say hi,
But we’d always find our way back in touch.
A jab about my degree. A terrible cup of tea.
An episode of Friends we’d accurately quote.
A trip to Wembley, in the away end, all trembly.
A clamber across the top of a barge-shaped boat.
But now we just can’t. Because somehow you aren’t.
You aren’t here. You’re not near. You’re just - where?
And you’re embedded in my heart, like a letter in the post.
Yours forever, Em. (I miss you more than I can possibly bear).
About the Creator
em
I’m a writer, a storyteller, a lunatic. I imagine in a parallel universe I might be a caricaturist or a botanist or somewhere asleep on the moon — but here, I am a writer, turning moments into multiverses and making homes out of them.
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
My heart goes out to you, Emily. (I refrain from using those familiar names you shared with one another, lest I diminish their power to evoke wondrous & warm memories by my unfamiliarity.) There are lives & loves that move & recreate us disproportionate to the amount of time we have spent together. Too often we fail to recognize just how important to us they have been until they are no more. Blessings, dear Emily. The grief you carry in your heart bears testimony to the great love & affection the two of you shared.
Fantastic!!!💖💖💕