Sad Poetic Attempts

						“What’s lonelier? To Grieve or not love anyone enough to?”- Alexis Bates

It’s hard to admit that you always were part of a problem you constantly and consistently screamed about — in silence or out loud. In my case, it never did occur to me, and when it did, it was too late. It turned out I always had been part of a problem I mourned about. Grudgingly, it took somebody else pointing it out — unaware, for me to see it and begin to come to terms with it (or at least try).

This one is about the first man who, by choice, loved me.

When my Uncle lived, I loved him. When he died, I broke. When my Uncle lived, I watched him — how he worked hard, how he worked tirelessly, how he gave never-ceasing, and how he loved with no conditions. I loved this man; worshipped him.

When my Uncle lived, I watched him get nothing in return. Nothing for loving, nothing for giving, nothing for working. I blamed God, the Universe, and everybody else around us. I (tried) to write poems about how unfair life and God is; about how the people who deserved the most sun got the most rain; about how hard work really didn’t guarantee any favors from God or the universe; about how people will take, take and take as long as you keep giving, never caring what it costs you, never looking back. In all of my complaining and heartache, I never for a second imagined I was one of the people who took so much from this man I claimed to love; so much that he was left running dry.

When my Uncle was, and when he first stopped being– physically, I could swear I was the closest person to him. I could swear I loved him more than anybody ever did. I could swear I knew and understood him more than anybody else. But that was until I had the conversation which birthed this piece. After a conversation with a close friend — of my Uncle and I, I began to think that maybe I did not know my uncle as much as I thought I did. If it makes sense, I would say that who I knew was merely the aftermath of who he truly was — I doubt this makes sense. Yet, I hope it does.

Here’s what I knew. I knew that when he smiled, it never quite did reach his eyes. I knew he was tired by life — if one really looked, it was glaring to see. I knew he gave and gave in hopes of receiving. I knew he was saddened that life was never kind enough to give him even a bit of what he desired or deserved. But that was all I knew. I knew nothing else. I did not know my Uncle felt like a stranger even when he was with me.

Engaged in this conversation with our friend, it began to dawn on me how little I knew (of) my uncle and his life. Looking back now, I can chuckle because, in retrospect, these are things that should have been obvious but absurdly weren’t because it never occurred to me that my Uncle had a life separate from me — a life of his own beyond working, beyond loving me, beyond giving me. For the first time, I was learning that my Uncle had people in his life that I knew nothing of. I was, for the first time, being prompted to think and accept that there were things he went through that he never shared with me. I was being told that my Uncle had worries and joys he never shared with or mentioned to me. It was being pointed out to me that my Uncle was my best friend, but chances are, I never (really) was his.

All my life, my Uncle had been there to love on and look after me. He cared about what I ate; he fed me. He worried about how I felt; he loved me and showed up even when nobody else did. And though I thought I was also this person for him, I suddenly had to face the possibility that I might have never been. I have this load of pictures of him, and these days when I go through them, I wonder if he ever felt as loved with me as I did with him. This is just one of the countless questions I will never have an answer to.

I have always been convinced that I fail at loving others the right way. I write not because I want to but because I have to — it’s the only way I know how to pour out my heart, say the things I truly mean, and in honest truth, express the things I want to show in actions but lack the ability to. However, I wish I had the ability to love and show this man how much I loved him when he was here with me. As John Legend sings, “Actions speak louder than love songs”; in this case, louder than a failed attempt at poetic reflection.

. . .

This is a very rustic piece — one I hope that, with luck, I can articulate and present more effectively one day soon. For now, bear with me. Thanks for giving me a read.

Infinite love and gratitude, Tea

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