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.