Grateful

The funeral had been a somber affair, months ago. Most usually are, it is true, but then again… most didn’t concern him. So the atmosphere never truly affected him, he never truly understood what it was, what it meant, what it did. He’d never felt it. Here and now, however, he understood clearly how it truly was.

He’d been to funerals before, of course. Distant relatives that he’d interacted with once or twice maybe, sometimes for those he’d never interacted with at all. He’d always felt sorrow, of course, but not for his loss. After all, he barely even knew them. No, he felt sorrow for the loss of the others, those who actually did lose a loved one. But he’d never truly understood their pain, their suffering.

But he did now, standing in front of the gravestone the held the words of his loved one. In his heart, the very center of his being, he felt that pain, that suffering, that agony of loss. But he’d expected to feel that. What really stood out to him, what truly made his pain more prominent and came at a surprise to him… was an entirely different emotion.

Gratitude.

He felt gratitude for his uncle’s death, the man for whom he held so many treasured memories. The man who took him hunting in the mountains, took him fishing, brought him to concerts, sports games, movies and other various adventures. The man who had captivated him with stories all his life, both real and imagined, and had helped mold him into the man he was today. That man was dead, dead where he wasn’t, dead where he should have been as well… and he felt grateful for it.

Hazel eyes closed as he fought back tears of self-loathing and loss. His mind cast itself back in time, back to the moment his life changed, back to the reason for his standing here today.

His uncle had been driving the truck, a little green Toyota Tacoma that was over twenty years old, his grey eyes flashing with an adventurous glint. They had been talking, laughing with each other over a stupid joke he’d made. But his uncle always appreciated those jokes the most, far more than the wittier and arguably funnier jokes that most enjoyed. They’d been laughing… and then his uncle was cursing, throwing an arm over his chest despite the seatbelt he wore to keep him in his seat, while the truck swerved violently across the road.

Then there’d been a sound, a sound that seemed similar to the world ending, a cacophony of crunching metal, shattered glass and rending parts, accompanied by his scream of terror. Then the world was moving, moving in ways it had no right to move, a blur of greens, blacks and browns. It seemed to last for an eternity, the overwhelming terror and fear he’d felt then still so easily recalled here and now… and then it was over, nothing more than a ringing in his ears.

It was over, that is, until he checked his uncle, fighting against the panic and disorientation of being suspended upside down after such a brutal jarring. There and then, he was certain that the world had ended, must have ended, for there was no way that what he was seeing could have been true. After all, his uncle had been in more near-death situations than most even dreamed of, and every single time, without fail, he’d managed to cheat it. It didn’t seem possible for him to die. Death avoided him like the plague, that was a fact he knew well.

So why, then, was he limply hanging there, his arms hung below his head? Why were his grey eyes, so full of life, mischief and adventure, staring sightlessly in front of him? Why was there so much bl-…

He tore himself from those memories with a violent jerk of his head, opening his eyes to stare once more at the gravestone. An idle thought noted that he was breathing faster, that his heart was pounding harder in his chest. He clutched at it subconsciously with his free hand, fighting back the tears once more.

They told him that he was lucky. That the accident should have killed him too, that he should have been buried that day along with his uncle. The only reason he wasn’t, they told him, was because his uncle and turned the truck so that he caught the impact, making himself another barrier between death and his nephew, his godson. He owed his uncle his life, he knew that. He knew it and he felt terrible for it.

Survivor’s guilt, they called it.

His life being saved wasn’t why he was grateful, however. No, he would forever feel guilty for that. What he felt grateful for, what caused him so much self-loathing, was clutched in his right hand. For that object, and what came with it.

It was a little black notebook, filled to the brim with stories and ideas, written by the man buried six feet beneath him.

His uncle had always dreamed of being an author. Storytelling had been his passion, beyond the adventures that he had and the sights he had seen. “I’m looking for my next story,” he would say, an adventurous grin always upon his lips. He never sought out adventure for the adventure… but rather for the stories that would come with it.

But he’d never written a book and published it, no matter how much he’d longed to. They encouraged him, himself in particular, but still he’d never done it. He didn’t think it would pan out, didn’t think it would be worth it. But it had been his passion nonetheless, and he’d written down hundreds of ideas and plots. That little black notebook held his hopes and dreams.

And it had been left to him, along with his beloved little truck and the thing he was grateful for the most… $20,000.

With a deep sigh, he knelt down next to the gravestone with a sad smile, two finger raising to rest on the smooth granite. “Thank you,” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks.

He stayed there for a few moments longer, before standing up and smiling as he wiped away his tears. “You’d probably tease me for crying,” he laughed, feeling strangely happy, though it was a bittersweet happiness. “And then say that it’s a good time so long as I can say that it is… so it’s a good time. I just… I never told you before. Thank you. Thank you for your stories, the adventures you took me on, the good times we had… and for saving my life.”

For a moment, he waited in silence, as though he expected a response. None came. Finally, he sighed again and turned to walk away, only to pause when a sudden gust of wind blew around him, warm and comforting. He smiled, a far more genuine smile than he’d worn before, casting a glance back at the gravestone. With another nod, he walked slowly out of the cemetery, noting all the gravestones dotting the landscape in uniformed rows. It was a beautiful day.

His eyes landed on a little green Tacoma that was his. It was old, older than most would expect him to be driving, but he didn’t mind that. After all, though it might have taken a large portion of the money left to him to get fixed, it came with a story. And age told of many more stories.

The door swung open easily, and the seats were just as comfortable as they had been before. He set the little black notebook on his dashboard before shutting the door and buckling up, sitting in the driver’s seat as opposed to the passenger one he usually sat in. It was weird seeing a manual these days, but his uncle had taught him how to drive it years ago, so he had many years of practice. The clutch had been replaced along with most other parts, but it was worth every penny to him.

So many memories were held in this truck, memories that he found himself dwelling on once more. Each memory was precious to him now, and he knew that he would forever treasure this truck, something he felt his uncle had planned on. So it was that when he arrived back home at his apartment, he was feeling happier than he had in a long time. The little book never left his hand as he walked up through the complex, his mind not focused on the task. He suddenly knew what he should do.

His apartment was as plain and boring as most would imagine, although that was mostly because he’d only recently moved in. Before, most of his money had been going to paying off his debts, so he’d been living with his parents. However, with what his uncle had left him, those debts were now paid, allowing him to finally move out and really start to make something of himself.

He found his laptop in a box that he had yet to unpack, along with its power cord and mouse. While he didn’t have a desk to really use it at, he did have a little table that would do for now. A can of Diet Pepsi was acquired from his fridge, and then he was sitting down at the table, powering on the laptop. He set the little black book next to it while he opened up an empty document. After taking another glance through it, he started to write.

“This story is dedicated to my Uncle, the man who saved my life and gifted me with so many stories.”