Uncle Will

You died.

And at first, when I heard the news, I was stoic.
I rocked shut and clinched my face.
Like a toddler who slams closed her eyes
in the face of a monster –
if I can’t see it, it’s not real.

But my mother’s quivering voice lingered.
And it was real.

I thought: This affects my father more than more me.
You were his best friend, his more than blood brother.

Then, the next day, though I begged it not too,
my left eye let out a continuous stream of tears.

It was allergies, I told myself.
The pollen count was quite high
and I’d been sneezing for days.
A misplaced, overactive tear duct
that was all.

But when, around lunch time,
my right eye joined my left,
I could no longer fool myself.

You died.

And I felt as though a part of me died too.

I didn’t know you, really.

I only knew the man
who smiled his Santa Claus Smile,
and winked his glistening eyes,
(eyes that I can only assume were brown,
but I really don’t remember).

The man who drove hours to my college graduation,
and presented me with a Kenneth Cole watch,
that, I think, I should have been more grateful for.

The man who carted my furniture
down four flights of stairs
and into the waiting car
when I moved to my first real apartment
in Manhattan.

The man who I loved,
only because I know my father loved you so much,
even though, as a man, I never heard him say it.

The man who, although I don’t remember,
I know held me as baby,
And dotted upon me –
I’ve seen the pictures.


You died.

And I don’t believe it.
I want to pretend you’re still alive,
traveling throughout the country,
using one of your 27 cell phones.

But I can’t.

Because I heard my father’s voice.
A voice I’ve heard so often,
yet, until now, never before.

He must have loved you a lot
to make you the godfather
of his first born child.

And I, I love you too.

It breaks my heart that only now
do I realize how much.

A Pink Day

I'm starting to think that risk, jumping head first into the unknown, is, in some instances, preferable to comfort.

Comfort is dull, monotonous, chock full of beiges and greys.

Risk is vibrant, tumultuous, decorated in harsh, smothering blacks and imposing, frightening reds, along with vivid, crazy pinks and funny, tickling yellows.

And I...I need some color in my life.

No more grey.

Writing, Rewriting and More Rewriting

"I have spent most of the day putting in a comma and the rest of the day taking a comma out."
-Oscar Wilde

Changes

Life is full of change. To live without change is to not really live at all. It is to exist in a monotonous, grey colored bubble lacking any sort of development or evolution.

Tomorrow I face a change. A positive change, but a change nonetheless.

One door closes and another one opens. I can only hope that what lies behind this nearly open door is as good as I anticipate.

I've never been one to accept change easily. And I've certainly never been one to coolly and willingly decide to make a change.

But, this instance is different.

Perhaps it means that I've become disjointed, rash in my decision making. Perhaps it means that I'm barreling forward with arms open a bit too wide to greet whatever comes next.

But perhaps...perhaps it means I'm growing up.

What Styron Says...

"When, in the autumn of 1947, I was fired from the first and only job I have ever held, I wanted one thing out of life: to become a writer. I left my position as manuscript reader at the McGraw-Hill Book Company with no regrets; the job had been onerous and boring. It did not occur to me that there would be many difficulties to impede my ambition; in fact, the job itself had been an impediment. All I knew was that I burned to write a novel and I could not have cared less that my bank account was close to zero, with no replenishment in sight. At the age of twenty-two I had such pure hopes in my ability to write not just a respectable first novel, but a novel that would be completely out of the ordinary, that when I left the McGraw-Hill Building for the last time I felt the exultancy of a man just released from slavery and ready to set the universe on fire."

"Lie Down In Darkness" - This Quiet Dust and Other Writings (1982)