February 11 2015
An uncle I never met passed away this morning. Cancer - he was old. I'm sad because I never met him; now that I can't, I'm particularly aware that I don't know what he looks like. Barring one WWII-era family childhood photo, the borders of which I took it upon myself to trim off messily when I was 5 (and which I have only been shown once since), maybe I never will know an outer form of Jimmy. But I suddenly do know more acutely how much I would have liked to meet him. Unfortunately, the chance never came up; he was schizophrenic and reclusive, and lived somewhere I'd never heard of in England. But when I think about it, I'm considerably more sad that my dad has lost his only younger brother. That seems weirdly cruel, perhaps moreso in some physical way when you're older. I've always heard about Jimmy, the younger fellow picked on most by their abusive father, who lived with my father in London and had lucid and poetic things to say about society and his experiences. I've heard so many impressions of a voice I'll never hear; I've never met him, but he's always been around. Now he
isn't?
A few days ago, I had a chance to write a paragraph or two to help explain to Jimmy what cancer is. My brother had already done an illuminating job, being a biologist with a PhD who works with DNA. I wrote out my own explanation, then stalled as I usually do, uncertain about this or that. That would have been my one clear opportunity to communicate with Jimmy. Now it's gone. That's sad, and the more I think of it, the worse it is... I should reflect on that, on what uncertainty does. But ultimately, for myself, I would have wanted to know what he was like and what it was like to be him, not just send a metaphor or two about what cancer is. Still: I could have done that.
My heart goes out to those who knew him.
I will combine my new attitude of no guilt and the insight about not wasting breath telling people when you really want to do things.
