For days since I arrived, I’ve been calling around to car rental companies in the Salt Lake area. I keep getting the same message that all the cars are sold out everywhere. My initial thought was that I needed a 4 wheel drive. Now I would be happy with anything with 4 wheels.
I went so far as to call the mother I haven’t seen in years to see if she felt like taking a drive with me to see our relatives. When she counter-suggested I ditch that plan and come down to spend the day with my whore sister, my abusive stepfather, and my adulterer brother in law, she was upset when I respectfully declined.
In lieu of further embarrassing myself by seeking alternate means of transportation, I simply called my family I was intending on visiting to let them know they were in my thoughts and heart. Now, I wait.
After spending the last several days indulging myself in the fantastic company of friends and the chilly embrace of the Wasatch mountains, I’m staying in today. I’m going to spend the day with my Uncle in spirit.
My uncle spent his life in service. To his country, his family, and his neighbors. When my parents needed him, he was there with assistance. When I needed him, he was there with guidance and entertainment. When his wife fell ill, he took care of her for a dozen years until his body would no longer sustain him. All who know him respected him.
My uncle was not a thoroughly read man, but he would read stories to the children in his care. He would tell stories most often… fantastic stories of adventure and marvel that he swore were true. So today, I read. I read the stories that are available to me. Books I packed filled with stories of love gone wrong and the psychosis that men harvest in their minds. Not quite the Jungle book, but it’s what I have.
My uncle always tolerated my musical indignities on the air piano in his basement and the ragged xylophone my sister and I beat to within an inch of disintegration. He would clap and tell us we were prodigies and incite us to listen to old records of artists I had never heard before. Billie Holiday. Louis Armstrong. Even other names I didn’t know then and don’t remember now.
So this morning, I spend in service, in study and in appreciation. I clean my sister’s apartment. I do dishes, clean tables, put away laundry and take out the trash. I read. I listen to all the old jazz I have on my iPod in lieu of the old vinyl discs that I first heard these notes from.
This afternoon, I’ll leave the house and go find my sister, and friends, and strangers and I will tell them stories of my time with my uncle. We’ll laugh and smile and he’ll be right there with us watching us honor the life he lead by sharing it with others.
This is the only way I know. It is all I have left. I hope it is enough.
