Losing more family

Death is a curious thing. We tend to want to hate it, crush it, spit on it and turn it away; we don't like it, especially when it takes someone we love or it hurts those we love. Many of you know I lost my father. It was on Valentine's day last year, forever marking that (for some, overrated) holiday. It was hard, and it lead me to write the book I'm writing. He was the first of his siblings to die. He was the fourth of six. The eldest is eighty-two or eighty-three.

This morning, on my way in, I received a call that my father's brother, the second oldest, had passed away in the early morning hours in Colombia. He died a year and almost 7 months after my father, leaving the rest to wonder who's next, a sentiment that my aunt expressed to me when I spoke with her this afternoon. Two down, four to go. What a sad concept for those of us left behind to comprehend. My uncle leaves behind a wife of over fifty years and eight adult children; the youngest is four months younger than I am. One of them, the youngest girl, just had her second son a week ago. Some are born while others die. It's the cycle of life.

So today was a sad day for me. It brought back the flurry of emotions and the weight and darkness that came when my father died. It cemented my mortality and that of those I love even more.