uncle art.

Uncle Art was my mother’s brother. He died when I was three years old. Sleeping pills and sadness were his death.

I have been thinking about Uncle Art a lot lately, although I’m not sure why. The only real memory I have of him was not too long before his death. he brought me a huge stuffed Smurf. I don’t know where he got it or why, but I remember being in awe because it was so much bigger than I was. I realize now that it probably wasn’t so big; I was just small. Still in my mind, I can still see it looking down at me, and Uncle Art was laughing. Amazing that I can remember it from only 3 years old.

He was a poet too, and I think it makes me that much sadder about not having the opportunity to know him or talk to him or understand him. Even with his schizophrenia, I think he and I probably would have been close. After all, I seem to be around crazy people every single day anyway. There are three people who I wish could see me now and be proud, and he is one of them (the other two are Grandpa Koch and Grandpa Williams).

It makes me wonder what my own nieces and nephews will remember about me. Makinna is 3 now, and she and Tink already spout off about things that happened last summer and even before. The older ones sometimes say “remember when….” too. Hopefully, if something were to happen to me, they would have good, fun memories of the time we’ve spent together too.


2 Comments to “uncle art.”

  1. thank you for the beautiful information!

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