The One Where My Uncle Died
It's been a day. I heard a few hours ago that my Uncle died last night. The father of the cousin that died of cancer a couple of months ago. I can't imagine what my Aunt is going through right now. I've messaged my Mum – she's been calling over the last week. I imagine over the coming days the family will re-assemble from the far corners of the country once again.
My uncle was unlike anybody I've ever known. When I was young he always seemed somewhat quiet and stern. He would visit on Thursday night's with my Aunt and struggle to make conversation. Looking back now, he was probably just shy. I'm the same way. Lots of people think I'm a chatterbox, but those who know me better realise that's how I defeat it – I get other people talking so I don't have to.
Not long after I got married we took my Aunt and Uncle out for dinner at a local pub – after a couple of drinks he began telling stories, cracking jokes, and reminiscing endlessly about our his youth – about how he met my Aunt, and the adventures and scrapes they had along the way. It transformed him in my eyes – it felt like I was meeting him for the first time. I've never forgotten that evening.
He was always immaculately turned out. I don't think I ever saw him in jeans or a t-shirt. Always a button-up shirt, often a tie, and always looked after shoes. At my cousin's wedding – despite my cousin being gravely ill – he was the proudest man in the room. Despite needing a walking cane and a mobility scooter, he walked through the church, and stood for the hymns and the photographs outside the church.
I will remember him, and miss him more than he might have known.