Uncle Wayne

My Uncle Wayne died in September. It was not unexpected; he had had cancer and many complications from it for quite some time.

But it was still tragic. He suffered a lot in his last few months, and I think that's what is making it so hard for me to deal with the fact that he's not here anymore. I want to reimagine a more comfortable end.

His funeral was simple, informal. Perfect for him. It was in the same place that his wedding reception had been-- one of his and his wife's favorite restaurants. And the last place that I had seen him before he died, where he looked both better and worse than I thought he would and for once I thought he might actually pull through.

We all did a shot of Jameson at the service because it was one of his last requests. He wanted to have one last drink with his loved ones. That moment, lifting the tiny plastic cup to my lips, was so tremendously heartbreaking and humbling. My last (and first) shot of whiskey with my uncle.

I was crying so much after that shot that I couldn't get up and talk about him, memorialize my version of him. Talk about how as a child I was afraid of him, as little things are of big things. About how I got over my fear because he was gentle with me, even as he gruffly talked about the shape of his last turds, giggling about it like a teenager. About how he was such a full person, because could laugh about poop while being incredibly intelligent and enjoying classical music. About his generosity. About his encouragement, and how I'll never stop playing the cello thanks to him.

We had a strange and beautiful bond over music. When I started playing cello in high school, he converted his entire classical library to mp3 discs for me for Christmas. Hours upon hours of cellos, and less importantly violins. Whenever we saw each other he would ask how it was going, my music. He asked with his eyes on me, unglazed, and he spoke quietly because he wasn't asking for the room-- he wanted to know for himself. When he was sick, I sent him CDs of me playing. Just twice. The first one was a concert recording of my string quartet in college. The second was six or seven songs I recorded in early August, with the cicadas keeping time in the background. I don't know if he ever got around to listening to it before he died.

And perfectly, like a well-written book, my Aunt Deb, his wife/love of his life, gave me his iPod. It's an old one, one of the first maybe, 60 gigs. Full of his music. Full of him, because what music you choose to play in your ears is an intimate part of you. When I scroll through all the artists, I am getting a privileged look at my dear Uncle Wayne. I am understanding, posthumously, how complicated and brilliant he was, as he has probably every genre on it, from Billie Holiday to Billy Idol to, of course, those beautiful cellos (and more).

The most perfect part is that there are still enough gigs available that I could put my music on. . .
Uncle Wayne and I will keep having our music conversations.