Uncle B

Dear Uncle B,

I’ve been meaning to write to you for a couple of weeks now, but every time I sit down and begin this letter, things… get in the way. It’s been hard. And for good reasons, I might add.

For example, yesterday I was walking to my car, had my headphones in and everything, and I could see an old homeless woman approaching me. She was wrapped in a tattered black shawl, her hair ran ragged, and her face looked like a pinched pastry. She was on the path directly in front of me and I had no choice but to walk right past her to get to my car. Then, she made eye contact with me. Mom says, “Never make eye contact!” But it was just too late Uncle B. As I got closer, I was nearly past her when suddenly she turned to me and said, “There you are!” Next thing I knew she had thrown her sandwich, or what looked like a sandwich, right at me.

In the moment between the sandwich leaving her hand and catapulting towards my chest, I wondered, Is it a salmon sandwich? A meatball sub? Oh God, don’t let it be an egg sandwich! Believe it or not Uncle B, these are things one thinks of as they brace themself for hoagie impact.

But in retrospect, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. The sandwich (a croissant, I’m certain) simply bounced off my chest and hit the ground. And then, I think I might have laughed. I felt bad for the homeless woman, because she probably wasted her only meal of the week on me. So, I turned around and gave her ten dollars. She smiled at me and took the money.

I wondered what that experience was like for her, Uncle B. Had I just trained an elderly homeless woman to throw sandwiches at people and expect money in return? Perhaps. But it just felt like it was the right thing to do.

I think my whole life is one big proverbial sandwich, and I am being tossed around at will by the whims of a mad person.

This year has pretty much sucked, Uncle B. Things haven’t been going as planned. Let me start at the beginning.

First and foremost, the Chicago Bears lost their first playoff game. How cheap is that? You spend an entire season— blood, sweat, tears, and too many cases of beer— rooting for a team just to make it to the playoffs. And then they do. They, by some miracle, sneak right up to the first round. You get giddy just thinking about it and plan a party with all your friends and family to watch the big game. The game begins and they do alright. In fact, they do better than alright. You actually think they’re going to win this one. Heck, maybe there’s another playoff game in your future, dare I say Super Bowl?

And then… They bite it. And everything from that season— all the blood, sweat, tears, and too many cases of beer— were for nothing.

It’s the hope that kills, Uncle B. I know you know this.

We actually need to talk about the double doink for a second. So, on that last drive, the Bears had a chance to win the game by three points. It was a 25-yard field goal with ten seconds on the clock, even that old homeless lady with the sandwich could have made the kick with her eyes closed.

All Parkey had to do was make the kick. He wound up, the ref blew the whistle, the defense rushed, and Parkey let it fly. It looked promising, right on target. I remember taking a swig of victory beer. But then, the ball started to curve too far left for comfort and I leaned forward onto the edge of my seat. Suddenly, the ball struck the left goal post, then flew downwards towards the bottom post. It had one more chance, it just needed to bounce the right way. But instead of bouncing through, it bounced back, and the ball trickled onto the field, mocking all of us.

And it was over.

I couldn’t believe it Uncle B. How the hell had the Bears best season in decades ended on a double doink? And the worst part, Chris Collinsworth was commentating on that game. He’s the one who called our demise a double doink.

I hate the sound of his voice. I still do.

Sometimes it hurts to root for our teams, but you taught me more than anyone else that we need to stand by the things we love, even when it’s difficult.

I know the Bears were your favorite team, and I actually only root for them because of you, Uncle B. But now you see why I couldn’t write you this letter then; the pain of losing the playoffs was just too raw.

Alright, enough of that. Let’s get back to why this year has sucked.

So, like I said, the Bears lost their first playoff game in a terribly embarrassing way, and then I got a shred of good news: I had been accepted off the staff housing waitlist! Which meant my job offered to provide me with housing. This was something that I had always wanted and waited almost three years to obtain. It was, in short, a miracle.

I let my roommates know well in advance (45 days to be exact) that I was moving out. I made sure to leave my old apartment in pristine condition (I even had the fridge and ceiling fan fixed for them). And I offered to pay an additional month of rent to tie them over until they found someone to replace me.

All was well, really it was. I was just about packed up and ready to fully move out, when I went back into my old bedroom to grab one last thing. And I noticed right away Harry was missing.

What is Harry, you might ask? Well, it was my framed One Direction fan T-shirt that Harry Styles spat on (I swear Uncle B, I was right next to the stage and Harry Styles accidentally spat on me. It was glorious).

Harry was my most prized childhood possession and I kept him hanging above my bed so I could often gaze at him.

But now it was clearly missing and when I asked my roommate if she had seen it, she smirked. I kid you not Uncle B, she smirked like the goddamn purple devil emoji! And then she said, “You can have Harry back. In exchange for $2,000.”

I was stunned. Shocked. Confused. Had I heard her wrong? She was my friend, or I thought she was my friend. I had been a good roommate. I always paid my rent on time. I kept my room clean and did my dishes. I even paid for her car to be towed that one time. Why was she doing this to me? And why Harry!?

I believe I began stammering and looking very much like a fish out of water. I tried explaining to her that I already gave her an extra month’s rent, and that I fixed the fridge and the ceiling fan. But she wouldn’t budge, and her grubby little fingers held tight onto Harry.

It never occurred to me to take Harry by force. I suppose if you were here, you’d tell me to slap her silly, but I could never do that Uncle B. The way I saw it, there was only one way to free Harry from being hostage: I would have to pay his ransom.

I remember standing there in the kitchen of my old apartment and thinking was he worth it? Was saving Harry worth $2,000? I seriously considered both the pros and the cons. The pros: keeping Harry meant keeping a part of my youth. I had had this sweat-stained T-shirt since I was thirteen and it reminded me of you. You gave me that One Direction T-shirt for Christmas, and I wore it all the time. When I finally got to see One Direction in concert, and when Harry Styles (bless him) spat right on me, I knew once and for all this would be my most favorite T-shirt of all time.

The cons: I needed to cough up $2,000.

The cons outweighed the pros Uncle B, and on March 12th I lost Harry forever. I wanted to tell you about Harry sooner, but I was afraid you would be upset I had lost your Christmas present.

And I really thought nothing could get worse than losing Harry, but once again I was bested by a proverbial sandwich: Mom and Dad decided to part ways for good.

This wasn’t a shock; I had seen the writing on the walls for years. But what I hadn’t predicted was that my darling mother would (quickly) find herself a husband that was the same age as me!

It’s strange Uncle B; this guy is literally my age (I think a month or two younger) and she wants me to call him “Dad.” I simply refuse, not just because it feels all sorts of wrong, but because of physics. It is physically impossible for this guy to be my dad.

I still love Mom, and I want her to be happy. But I also want Dad to be happy, too. It hasn’t been easy for Dad, he’s taking all of this really hard.

I wish you were here Uncle B so you could talk to him. Your brother needs you now more than you know. We all do.

Obviously, I’ve been wanting to tell you about my parents, but I know there’s nothing you can do. Not anymore.

Which brings me to last and final reason why this year has sucked so much: You died, Uncle B. You actually died.

I can still feel the weight of these words as I write them. How is this so, that this letter I’m writing right now will never be read by you? I still can’t wrap my head around that and I know Dad can’t either.

The day you died I held your hand. I remember walking into the hospital room and all the lights were off. The curtain surrounding your bed was drawn up, shielding you from the doorway. The room was still and so quiet, except for the sound of the ventilator. I remember it sounded just like how Darth Vader breathes, and if you were awake to talk with me, I would have told you that.

But you weren’t awake. You were asleep and taking small, shallow breaths. Each breath looked like it hurt. Your entire body would jolt, and I wanted so badly for all that pain you were feeling to go away.

You had become so skinny, lost all your hair. I remember the hospital gown they had you wearing slipping off your shoulders. I hated seeing you like that. Everything about you was different— Everything but your hands.

Your hands were still the same hands that built Legos with me as a kid. The same hands that would scoop me up in Mama B’s pool and toss me into the deep end. The same hands that held me steady as I learned to walk.

So in that dark, dreary hospital room, I got real close to you and held your hand in mine. I know you were asleep Uncle B, I know that. But I also think that maybe you knew I was there. I held on so tight and I never let go, not until I had to.

And I only had to, because Grandpa’s plane was landing and someone needed to pick him up from the airport to take him to you.

I knew Dad should stay by your side, so I kissed the top of your hand and promised I would make it back in time. I promised you I would bring you your dad.

We didn’t make it, Uncle B. We missed you by 12 minutes, so the nurses say. I hate myself for that. Maybe I should have run the reds or cut across lanes on the freeway. But Grandpa and I missed your final moments by 12 minutes.

I felt a lot like Parkey must have felt in that Bears playoff game. Like, all I had to do was just make the kick.

I’m so sorry I missed it, Uncle B. I’m so sorry.

It hurts to write this, to remember this. I miss you more than any words can say. You were too young and too loud and too bold to go.

I think about the day you died often and I haven’t been able to forgive myself. I haven’t really been myself, either. I’ve stopped running and reading in the mornings. I only eat once a day, but just because Dad makes me. I’m not really hungry anymore. I try and get my work done, but it’s so hard to focus.

A lot of little things hurt, like hearing I Want to Hold Your Hand by the Beatles (that was your favorite song) or seeing fresh tomatoes at the grocery store (you had a green thumb).

These little cuts have burned so brightly, I thought the bleeding might never stop.

But then, it was you Uncle B who stopped the bleeding. It was you who pulled me back to here, back to now.

I was packing up to go stay with Dad for the weekend when I decided I wanted to bring a book with me. I hadn’t read in a while and I remember Dad giving me this one book a long time ago that he’s been wanting me to read for years.

So right before I walked out the door, I went over to my bookshelf and picked up All the Little Live Things. When I got to Dad’s house and pulled out the book, he began to cry. I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “That was your Uncle B’s book.”

I remember all the colors around me softened, the noises settled down, and the only thing that mattered was this book that I held in my hands— this book that still held a piece of you.

As I flipped through the pages, I saw there were notes in it, Uncle B. Your notes. You marked it up real good and scribbled in the margins of almost every page. I loved seeing your cramped handwriting and felt so lucky to be reading a collection of your thoughts.

After I finished the book, I knew why you and Dad had wanted me to read it. You actually left a note that not only summarized the book pretty well, but also your life. On page 91 you wrote: Love is a carrier of death. Love is the only thing that makes death significant.

I think you had it just right, Uncle B. All this pain, all this grief, it’s just because I loved you so much. And this love I feel for you, that Dad feels for you, it gives your death meaning.

I miss you Uncle B.

I wish you were here to see my new apartment and help me take Harry back. I wish we could talk about who the Bears will pick in the draft, and how good they’re going to be this season.

I know this letter has been a long time coming, and I know I just kept making excuses not to write to you.

But I’m here now and that has to count for something. And I think Uncle B, the best way I can honor your life is by living mine— sandwiches and all.

All my love. Always.

-Boo