As I think I do every year, but I can’t bear to look, that my beloved Uncle B. died this week, fourteen years ago. I was coming home from his funeral on my twenty-first birthday. He had blue eyes and was left-handed and he read a lot. So, I liked him.
I also liked that he talked to me like a person. So many people, when they encounter children, seem to not be able to get past the whole “Ooooo. It’s a child. I should make fun of it or baby talk to it or hide from it or tell it to hide from me.” But my Uncle B. wanted to know what we were up to and how we liked school and what we thought about the Tigers this year.
My grandpa also died in May, but somehow his deathday slides right by. I’ve kind of made my peace with the old fart so it is what it is.
But I don’t have anything to make peace with my Uncle B. about. I just miss him. And when I try to imagine what it would be like to lose either the Butcher or the recalcitrant brother, I am brought up short. I can’t imagine that for my Dad.
Anyway, I had lunch with the Professor and she said she’s going to make me a cake for Friday.
And that makes me happy.