“Another Day Sunrise”
Another day sunrise
Moments before dawn
Sails set
Friends depart
But they are not gone.
That was written by my Uncle Stephen who was the greatest man I ever knew.
On February 1, 1952 one of the most important men in my life was born.
He had thin red hair and a slow steady gait.
In his office he had gadgets and do-dads and bits and bobbles.
In his kitchen he had an armada of little model houses.
In his dining room he had glass shelves covered in Star Trek memorabilia.
In his living room he had wind-up music boxes and the world’s largest collection of B-rated science fiction films all stored in brown boxes with thin faded black text describing the movie and some facts about filming.
In his life he lived simple and relatively lonely. He never married. He didn’t have many friends. What he did have were nephews and nieces that he treated like treasured plants. Plants that would look pretty damn badass with a machete and possibly a katana in some pictures.
In his actions he was direct. He had honesty in spades. He showed me that solitude was not sadness. That finding the silly in the mundane was amazing. That making doo-dads even if they didn’t work was a great thing. That label makers had many uses.
On March 22, 2004 he died at his kitchen table. It took several days for him to be found. His baby sister who lived less than five miles away refused to drive to his house and see if he was alright. The same sister held his funeral in a Chapel with a pastor presiding. This same sister talked of God and what “Stephen would have wanted.” She said he would have loved the violin. She said a lot of things on his behalf.
I sat for what felt like eternity listening to what she and others said on his behalf. I listened to my brother cry his way through an Edgar Allen Poe poem that he had spent days searching for. I listened to this pastor talk about heaven and hope and the ending of lives. I sat there and cried and looked at this blown up portrait of him. I sat there and thought about how he didn’t like green or red foods and how he always went to Al’s Pancake Palace and the waitress would bring him an iced tea without asking. I thought about the sweat stain in his truck’s front seat that was dark and pungent that I never wanted to touch.
I thought about how he always made me try new foods and the careful way he went through every row at the Dollar Store. I thought about the time he took me and my brother to the park and tried to play a camera trick so it looked like we had jumped over a huge stone. I thought about the times he took us to the birdcage movies and how at the arcade he always played Space Invaders.
I thought about all of these things while sitting next to the man who molested me when I was younger and listening to the woman who told me awful things about my whore mother. I thought about all of these things and I got angry and tearful. I thought about all of the cruel and meaningless things the people on the pew set aside for family had done and I was so angry.
Angry that these people had the right to talk on behalf of the one good man in my life. Angry that the pedophile still lived while the greatest man I knew had died. Angry that they had such a right and the privilege to stand there and tell us all what Stephen wanted, who Stephen was. I sat there and burned on the inside and listened to their lies and their legitimate grief and hated.
I hated the chapel. I hated the pastor. I hated the violin. I hated Stephen’s brothers. I hated his sisters. I hated his friends. I hated everything except that picture. That ridiculously huge picture that was nearly drowned out by the hideous bouquets of flowers around it.
That night at Stephen’s wake I laughed when my drunk aunt gave me the shirt off her back. I laughed not because Stephen would have wanted me to but because I wanted me to and that, more than the pastor, the chapel, and the awful squeaking violin music is something I knew in my heart that Stephen would have appreciated.
I will never do anything in his name or because he would have wanted me to because that would go against everything he taught me growing up. I am my own person and the best way I can honor him is to continue being my own person. Proudly and without fanfare, I will be myself. Not because he loved me for me or because he would want me to but because I loved him- love him and this is the best way I can show it.
Uncle Stephen was the greatest man I knew and he died alone. He loved his toaster oven and worked on traffic lights for a living. His obituary stated he “will be loved” and he is.
In his words, “I’ve a feeling we’re all just a cornflake / Spilled loose from the box.”
