I don’t know what to write here. I haven’t been exactly sure how to think or act or speak in the last few days, so I’m not surprised that blogging about “it” isn’t inherently an easy thing to do. Sorry for the disjointed jumble to follow…
My uncle, Joe, committed suicide on Monday. My dad’s brother. Yes, he was sick for awhile, if you consider depression an illness, which I do.
On Sunday, Lisa’s grandmother spoke philosophically about the death of her husband a few years previous. “I hate when people say I ‘lost’ him. I never ‘lost’’ him, I knew right where he was.”
I guess technically, tangibly, we always knew right where Joe was, but we definitely lost him years ago. He was reclusive for much of my life. Without a doubt, he was the uncle with whom I had the most tenuous relationship. We spoke with love and amicable warmth on Christmas Eves and family barbeques and times when he was over to help repair a lawnmower. And though Joe and I shared those qualities most quintessential to The Garvey Male (very smart, facial hair, loves hockey, studied latin, democrat, etc.) I can’t say our outward similarities extended much past that.
I remember when I was a kid and I asked him where the bubbles in my coke came from. The easy answer there is “magic!”, but he didn’t even hesitate to explain to a 7 year old how carbonation works. He said that I couldn’t see the microscopic reaction happening, but I could see the bubbles, the result. The rest, I’d just have to trust him on. I did.
I wish I could tie these things intelligently together for you, something about being “lost” and trust in what you can’t see, but no – these are just things I can’t get out of my mind. I’ve also, understandably, had Elliott Smith playing in the corners of my psyche for days now. Do me a favor: go listen to King’s Crossing, say a prayer for his son and two daughters, and have a coke.
1 year ago