Uncle
Elena Zhang Yan, ZhaoKe. The name still feels fuzzy. Maybe I spelled it wrong; did I say it wrong? Did I remember it wrong? I must have. It’s been years since I've been told his name. I barely remember. I always simply called him 大舅. Uncle. Mom's older brother, specifically. I was 11 years old and visiting relatives in Nanjing, China. We were in a restaurant, in a giant partitioned room with two tables that could sit about fifteen each. The women and children sat at one table, and the men and teens sat at the other. Only hours before, my Mom and I were in a hospital room, sitting on my uncle’s bed as he smiled and chatted, eating his lunch. I'd already hugged him then, and I wanted to hug him again, but he sat at the men's table with my father and other uncles. I was only a quiet 11-year-old who continued to sit next to her mother. Yet even after being checked out of the hospital for the night, my uncle was still smoking a cigarette. A lifetime ago, when I was two years old, my aunt sat next to me on the living room couch and fed me rice and vegetables. I remember my uncle sat on the other end of the couch in his special corner. He laid back and watched the TV. I remember his smile when he asked me a question. I feel like I should know every word, and they rest on the edge of my throat, but I can’t remember them. I had been living in China with my aunt and uncle for the past year because my parents were busy back in New York, trying to find new jobs. Every day, my aunt and uncle would cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes, I devoured my meals. Other times, I refused to be spoon-fed. In those two years, my grandparents became my second pair of parents, treating me as their own. There are videos my now-adult cousin took of me. At certain times, I imagine myself in that little girl’s body. Short, jet black hair bundled up in two little pigtails; curious eyes that glowed with wonder; an innocent and unknowing smile; a brave heart, ready to face everything; stubby fingers that never touched piano keys. I was an energetic toddler, running around the apartment with laughter. I was confused. The two pieces of a giant-sized puzzle did not fit like I thought they would. My uncle came over to my side and sat down. He reached for the puzzle pieces. I was lost in the moment, but he showed me the proper way they fit, explaining in a gentle voice. With his guidance, I finished the puzzle on my own. Now, eleven again and back home in New York, I was unable to finish the new puzzle in my life. Moments ago, my mom showed me a photo from my aunt—my uncle laid in the hospital bed with his mouth agape and his eyes strained. Tubes slithered up his nostrils. When my mom urged me to come with her to the hospital, I froze. This might be the last time you’ll ever be able to see him. I didn’t listen. Even though I knew my mother was right, I was hopeful. Something was going to happen. He was going to be fine. He would be cured, and we could all put this behind us and move on. I was wrong. Three weeks passed by in a rush of tension. I’d been staying at my cousin Aileen’s house with her parents and pet dog. Her dog Cody nestled on my lap while Aileen and I sat on her bed, watching videos on my phone and staying up at night reading. We listened to audiobooks, bathed Cody, and crafted art projects together. We swam, played cards, ran across a field to capture the flag, brushed each other’s hair—brushed brushing the dog’s hair. Then, my mom came back from China. I don’t remember what I said to her. I didn’t say anything about my uncle for months. I wasn't even sure if he was still alive. Nearly a year later, my mom sat at the edge of my bed. She told me that my relatives that had passed away were now in a better place: my uncle, my grandfather, my great uncle, her father, and everyone else that we said goodbye to. She said that they were in a place where they were happy. That’s why they didn't come back. I said they couldn't come back since they were dead. I know now that she was only trying to protect me, but the prospect of death still terrifies me to my very core—one day ceasing to exist, one day leaving everything I love behind, eventually devoured by the earth. I don’t remember what she said to me after that. I went to bed, uneasy, but I woke up unable to remember what I was upset about. Later that summer on our annual trip back to China, my family and I went grave decorating. About an hour's drive from the city, the local cemetery was a vast expanse of large, gated monuments on a towering hill bounded with stone. Chinese text inscripted on the stones detailed the person's life or contained a loving message from their family. Names were engraved the deepest. Sometimes, stone carvings of the deceased would accompany the graves. There were no bodies in the earth, only urns filled with the ashes of discarded life, encased underneath the gravestone. That's what happened. Before my mom came home, she attended his funeral, probably dressed in white, just as tradition entailed, and mourned along with the rest of our relatives. And I didn't even know about it. I was only eleven, still terrified by death. My heart weighed down in my chest as I wrapped a string of bright pink and orange flowers around the edges of the tombstone gate. I remember the intense pop pop of the firecrackers that another uncle lit by the empty grave plots to the side. The six of us—my mom, two of my aunts, an uncle, a cousin, me—stood to the left of his newly adorned grave. Incense burned as one of my aunts waved around a clump of lit sage, while she sang long forgotten folk songs of love. My other uncle rolled out a small mat and set it gently in front of the grave. I don't have a father anymore, my cousin told me then. She sat down with both hands in front of her and bowed down, silent. When she finished, I planted myself on the mat in the lowest bow I could possibly muster, my hands curling with grief. I looked back up at the grave: the charred bills, the incense burner with its tail of smoke, the half-opened bottle of liquor, the ashes left by the firecrackers, the faces of my loved ones, the glistening grave and the ones that stood around it, and the fresh flowers that would soon die. I know my uncle is gone. I know I’ll never be able to see him again, but it doesn’t change how it hurts to know that I’ll never be able to see him again. Every time I replay the memories or see a picture of him, my heart warms. He raised me and cared for me. I will always remember his smile. It brings joy to me. I love him. |