My uncle was ten-years-old when I was born. Poor kid was poised and ready to be the doted-upon, youngest child in a family of seven, and then I made my debut as first niece and grandchild, pigtails, glasses and all. We spent a lot of time together when I was young, and I know I was a monumentally huge pain more often than not, much like a little sister can be. Like siblings, I think we can both look back on those tumultuous times and laugh, knowing they brought us closer with each spat and squabble. I wonder if he remembers:
- the time I went into his bedroom, after being told specifically NOT to, and glued his model car pieces together in a big tower that I was quite proud of...until he saw it.
- that he told me his fish would bite my fingers off if I put them in the tank. (They were goldfish.)
- when I went to Florida to visit, and I got mad because he went off with his friends instead of playing with me, so I took my Me'me're's advice and removed the wheels from his skateboard while he was gone. (I was five...it was actually quite impressive work.)
- the very last time my Me'me're was taken to the hospital before she lost her battle with cancer. He was only eighteen, I'm sure he knew what was happening, and he stayed with me instead of going to the hospital. I remember it as if it were this afternoon. The sun painted the sky a bright orange color as it set, and we sat outside together for the longest time. I don't even remember going in the house, or what happened later that night. I remember that he could have been at the hospital, but he was with me, siting in the side yard, silently watching the sun set on life as we knew it.