Dear Amina,
Thank you for hearing me out in session today. It's never been easy to talk about my uncle Simon, but of all the therapists I've had you're the only one who didn't immediately judge the events that happened between us, and I won't soon forget it.
In the years since we ended our relationship, I've come to the conclusion that the things we did — the secrets we shared — probably never should have happened, but he wasn't a bad man. Neither was he as perfect as he would have liked others to believe. No, my uncle was human through and through, for good and for ill. When he was alive, it was very difficult for him to accept that, which meant others had to feel the pain he didn't allow himself to feel.
In this document I'm going to put to words things I've never said to another human being — not to my parents, not to Drew, not even to my uncle, since he exiled himself from our family the summer I turned 18. I'm not sure why I'm doing this, and, to be honest, it makes me ill just thinking about it. But I have to do it. Right here, right now, before I feel embarrassed for saying it, is the only time I'll get to.
Okay, here we go. I should probably start by introducing my uncle.
My Uncle Simon
My first memories of Uncle Simon (or “Uncle Wolfy,” as I used to call him) are the games I played with him — checkers and mancala, yes, but also hide-and-seek, horsey, and “it.” The best way I can describe my uncle is that he was the sun — he radiated vitality and positive energy. Gran and Grandad's lives revolved around him, and he just had a presence. When he walked into a room, people stopped what they were doing and paid attention. As for his attention, everyone wanted it. I remember being proud of my uncle, and of being related to him.
I also remember, as I will for the rest of my natural life, how he loved me.
Most loves in the world are as difficult as they are worth it. My parents and I had our disagreements on any number of things as I was growing up — the unfairness of how chores were distributed, clothing choices, what I was and wasn't allowed to buy — things that feel all too familiar to me now, as a mother of two teenagers.
But there are other loves, the ones you experience once in a lifetime if you're lucky, that seem to take no effort at all.
Loving Uncle Simon was always easy.
To this day I struggle to name a more patient human being, especially a man. Uncle Simon never got short with me (until we broke up, that is). He had a knack for listening, and even though my concerns were often childish, petty ones, he never treated them as such. As soon as I was old enough to understand the feelings of others, I felt that he wanted to be present for me, to give me what I wanted even if it meant “spoiling” me, as my father often chided him for doing.
I felt, too, that there was something sad in him, something between us that was different from the others, but I was still in primary school the last time we looked into each other's eyes. In spite of that, I noticed he'd squeeze my hand a little tighter before he left on business trips, knowing we wouldn't see each other for a month or two. That he was always reluctant to let go, to let the three of us call a cab and go home.
Then Grandad died in the accident that ate away at his sight. And I wouldn't see my uncle again for close to six years.