Specifically, that you have to put effort into it. Generally, I get by. Generally, the people who matter to their varying degrees understand well enough that just because I don't talk to them doesn't mean I don't love them. But then I get to face, all at once and by surprise, that I am losing them anyway.
Specifically, I have an uncle. My favorite uncle. The one I'm closest to, the one I know and love best of all of them.
I am probably never going to see him, hug him, or touch his hand, again. He is Not Well. He's fine, apparently, he's himself, which is the most important part. But he is probably not going to be there the next time I visit that corner of the country.
The last time I was there, I spent a day with him. We went out in his boat, and he took me to see manatees, my all time favorite animal. He encouraged me to get in the water with them, and even though I couldn't see them from there--they were so close. I got second-degree sunburns that day. I spent the rest of that two-week trip in varying states of pain and tears and panic, and have scars. Freckles, too, but scars, all up and down my arms. Because I was foolish that day, because I forgot that there are many more consequences to not wearing sunblock that having an uneven tan my coworkers would mock me for when I went back home. And he knew, and he laughed at me, and that was good.
I spent a huge portion of that day leaning next to him, shoulders bumping when the boat went over a wave, laughing and singing along to the radio with him. And every so often I made sure to look over at him and burn that image into my mind, because I knew then, at his side, what it's so hard to remember when I'm on the other coast. That I would probably never seen him again.
Then I saw him three more times that trip, in those two weeks, and like an idiot, I forgot again. Because he was fine, he was walking, talking, laughing, mocking. He was brash and big and just. So perfectly himself. So perfectly and completely the uncle that I love so fucking much that I lost track of reality again. And worse yet, during those times, I was aching and pained and exhausted from my burns, so I barely interacted with him as I should have. I could have had an entire other day with him, or at least the afternoon, but I slept through it.
I was hurt, I was healing, fine, whatever--I missed a chance.
I won't regret my scars, but I'll always regret that nap.
I spent one magical, amazing, shocking day with my uncle on the open ocean, and it was amazing. Even now I can stop sometimes and just--remember what it looked like, light on the sea, wind pulling at my clothes and the waves, at the way he urged me on when I took the helm and tried--not well, mind--to guide the boat. I turned us around, and he just said, You started a figure eight, now you have to finish it! And he laughed.
So I finished it and I spent the day with him and I etched every second of it I could into my soul, because I loved it.
I hope he loved it, too. I really do.
We got lunch.
It was good, I think, but maybe, probably, that was the company.
So. Uncle--this is something I want to tell you but don't have the nerve to say in person, on the phone, in text. I'm better with prose, and maybe you knew that but maybe you didn't, because I don't think I ever spoke to you about my writing.
I asked you, last April, about tattoos. I mentioned, very deliberately, that I'm thinking about getting one. I wasn't bold enough to say, guess what it is. I was worried it would make you sad, or uncomfortable, or--something. I'm not sure how it will make you feel.
I don't like needles and I don't like pain and I never wanted a tattoo, but about a year ago now I woke up one morning and thought, I want a tattoo that says Tank Girl. I want a tattoo for my uncle, to remind me how strong and sturdy he's always thought I was. I want to be able to look at it and go, Yeah. I'm tough enough to do this. I want a tattoo to remind me of the first man I ever really believed was invulnerable. I want a tattoo dedicated to my personal Superman.
I want that. I'm looking into local parlors. I'm trying to decide on a place--somewhere I can see it, without a mirror. Somewhere bold, but tasteful. I'm looking at prices. I'm looking at fonts.
If you die, Uncle, before you get to see it, because I'm poor and broke and I work minimum wage, part-time, and I don't know when I'll be able to afford it, let alone tickets across the country, I want you to know it's going to happen.
I love you, I miss you, I cherish you. Even when I don't say it. Even when I don't text you. Because I'm bad at that, at staying in contact even with the people most important to me. I'm so goddamn bad at it. You helped make me. Formative years, and earliest memories--you're there. You'll always be there. Important moments and critical events, you were there.
Thank you for taking me to see the manatees. Thank you for showing me the dolphins. Thank you for giving me the ocean. Thank you for every hug, every afternoon or evening of babysitting, thank you for every time out. Thank you for letting me help you with your Star Trek Christmas Tree a few years ago.
I think, maybe, I should send this to you as an email.
But I don't think I even have your email address.
I love you.
