A Letter to my Uncle

Dear Uncle Tony,

I never thought I'd write another letter to you, honestly. But here I am doing it, and grateful for the chance.

I wanted to write to you just to tell you about a revelation that I had. It was a wonderful one. I realized, not all too long ago, that you aren't really dead and gone. Yes, you may be deceased, but you aren't gone.

It came to me when I was looking for Christmas decorations on Thanksgiving. I think of you most at Christmas time, especially on Thanksgiving, because you seem to show yourself to me more then. But I was looking through the bins mom keeps in the storage area, trying to find her snow man place mats for the Thanksgiving meal. And you know, I found something.

Your leather jacket. I'm sure you knew I took it after you passed on, and I was sure you wouldn't mind. I wore it all the time. I even wore it in the summer! But one year, back when I was still a teenager, the leather gave out. Big holes formed in the cuffs and collar of the jacket. I was told several times to get rid of the old thing. It was an ugly shade of brown to start with, and the color was changing in areas from wear. It didn't match anything I wore, and was on the bottom rung of the fashion ladder. But I never got rid of it. And I wore it with pride.

When I was sad, when I was happy, I put the old thing on again because it still smelled like you, after all those years. And putting it on felt like a hug from you.

I moved four years ago and the coat went missing. I was devastated. But when it went missing, I thought of you a lot more. I thought of all the things you had left me.

I remember my first car accident. I hit someone from behind when I was 17 and hadn't been driving long. It was your car I smashed up. You'd bought it a year before you died, and left it to my dad. I cried so hard when they towed the car away, the front end unrecognizable and my father angrier than he'd ever been.

That night, as I slept, the dream I had was the accident. It was the exact accident. I watched it all play out, step by step, until the cop came to my side. I looked up and the cop was you. You knelt down and put your hand on my shoulder and said, "It's alright. It's just a car. The car kept you safe, you weren't hurt. It's done it's job." And then I woke up.

When the car was fixed and came home again, I wasn't afraid of it for a second.

I sat in the storage area clutching that newly found coat and thought of that. I thought of your smile. You had the most unique smile ever. And every time I see you in my mind, you have that smile on your face.

But I have your memory. I have all the times we shared, the good and the bad. I remember you and dad making fun of my Doc Martin boots. I remember the drives you took me on through Philadelphia in your big Lincoln (and I still get teary eyed whenever I see a big blue Lincoln just like it). I remember you calling dad to say you won big at the horse races and bought that big green Buick... only three weeks after some thugs had stripped your Lincoln down.

I remember you sneaking off to smoke your Camels in the basement. The bickering between you and Aunt Louise, especially when she went off on a tangent and you turned to me to silently laugh. That was the first time in my life I realized what true love was.

I remember when Aunt Louise died. You called for my dad, and I could hear you crying. And you begged for my dad, who was out the door for the two hour drive to Philadelphia before he was done hanging up the phone. It was that day that made me decide to fight for a person's right to die. I hated watching you sit there while she was forced to live by machines, even though she was brain dead. That was a horrible scene.

And Uncle Tony, I would do anything for one last hug, for one last time to see that smile in person. But I'll settle for stopping to stare at big blue Lincolns, smiling at green Buicks, watching the horse races, and hugging that coat. And I'll rest assured that you are up there somewhere, bickering with Aunt Louise and laughing when she's not looking. And I'm sure you are putting your bets on the race horses, still.

Love always,
Erin