Stolen Moments

I’ll never forget the moment I heard the news… the vivid technicolor tone of the bright blue outdoor sky faded and the clear edges of life became hazy and subdued. And those normally sweet sounds, the audible evidence of life being lived, seemed somehow twisted and distorted before disappearing into the fading background. My chest suddenly heavy and hollow; my breath inhaling waves of sadness and sorrow, my heart fracturing with the deepest agony of feeling utterly and completely alone.

Why did no one explain that you’ll bleed an equivalent hurt when you love someone with all you’re worth?

In that instant my person, my closest connection, the only one who really got me - was gone; and my all too familiar world now seemed as if I was viewing it through someone else’s disconnected eyes. And my usual daily time struggle where I try to keep up by sheer force of will – instead felt as if time itself ground to a halt, standing utterly and completely still.

So much has been said about when life begins, but what of it when it ends? A glimpse of human behavior can display its curse, when all the 'I’d Nevers’ said in public become the opposite of those same promises now kept silent, behind closed doors, revealing their worst…

I’m standing here on the outer edges of my Dear Great Uncle Jon’s living room watching my relatives bickering, yelling, and squabbling over his nearest, dearest possessions – with no regard or thought to the kind-hearted soul of a man who owned them. Never mind that the Will has yet to be read.

As I lean pressed up against the doorframe, the scene plays out in front of me like a bad Hollywood movie. Pillows flying, grown adults clutching objects with petulant hands; angry tears rolling down their faces, throwing tantrums like four and five-year-old versions of themselves.

Aside from the nonsensical vulgarity of the situation, after the insult of it all; Uncle Jon would’ve been somewhat amused watching it all unfold.

I can almost hear him in my ear whispering – "Never you mind about the big things in life my dear Shirley... it's always been the little things that count. Just you never forget-to-remember that after all is said and done, that the only thing worth valuing... is always the little things."

The funny thing is, it’s as if no one else in that room recalled any of those treasured moments full of giftwrapped memories we’d all shared during the holidays. One of us ‘littles’ as he liked to call us would usually offer up a suggestion to an ‘adult’ problem or conversation over dinner or hot chocolate... which was usually met by an adult dismissing the suggested offer or opinion as ‘silly’ considering the source.

But Uncle Jon would always make a point of treating us the same – as equals to their older selves.

So, he’d chide that adult right back… saying things like:

“Hey now, you know you shouldn’t ever dismiss or disregard a child’s suggestion. And moreover, you should not only respect their opinions; but shoot – what you oughta do, is welcome them. After all, they’re just littler people with less experience. But they come jam-packed, full-to-the-brim of that highly coveted, yet terribly undervalued commodity we could all stand to use more often than we do…”

To which they’d say in their most sarcastic tones… "Oh yeah? And what’s that Jon?" and quick as whip he’d reply in his goofiest tone:

“Why; imagination, of course, of course.”

And the way he’d over enunciate that one word would cause all of us ‘littles’ to smile our toothiest grins, giggling quite hysterically while all the other adults would just sit there embarrassed, shaking their heads.

I miss him terribly. And being here in this room, in his house, filled with all his special things – evidence of a life well lived by my estimation – makes me wish I’d seen him more than before I let ‘life’ get in the way.

I would have said ‘no’ more often to the un- necessaries… the overtime at work, extra projects, courses and meetings. And traded it all for a few more moments of stolen time with a man who refused to see the world as it was; but instead, as how the world should really be:

"A little kinder, a little more forgiving, a little more loving, a little more giving, a little happier, a little more understanding."

What was I really chasing anyway? And why did I let it matter so much? It’s so bizarre how death causes you to really see the relevance of it all, or not – and the truth of what’s right in front of you.

There isn’t anything in this room or this house, that I might want that I can see. And then my thoughts turn as they often do, to those tough questions whose answers breed nothing but remorse and regret. Did I do enough... make sure he knew he mattered… say I love you enough...? I wish he was still here selfishly. Because the space without him in it, feels like a vast void of complete empty.

But then those thoughts, for no good reason, highlight the best of the times I spent with him... transporting me back to some of those exquisite moments of quiet creation. And whether we were reading or writing, painting or coloring, conversing or storytelling; for some reason when you’re creating something from nothing out of delightful necessity, time seemed to always stretch out rather endlessly.

There’s something to be said for being fully present in a room – to give someone or something your full attention; and act as if you have all the time in the world. Like nothing and no one else exists in any given moment except you, and whomever you’re with. That, was Uncle Jon’s gift.

So many of us received gifts that miserable afternoon after his final wishes were spoken, and the Will read, of a dear man who left us too soon. I can’t quite recall what happened after I left that day – it’s nothing but a muddy, cloudy haze.

But what I do remember is the sharp, unexpected wound walking out of that living room. Past their laughter, whispers and jeering looks carrying the only thing he bequeathed to me; his collection of Little Black Books.

It wasn’t his house, car, art, money, diamonds, or gold jewelry – so nothing of value to some it would seem.

But to me – a priceless treasure trove that meant everything…

See it’s on the very pages of those Little Black Books that he’d capture the life of his imaginings – along with his stories, experiences, memories, hopes, wishes, and dreams. His thoughts, goals, wins, views, and aspirations... often caught during our shared quiet times of creation.

Time marks two months today since he passed away and my everyday memories have paid the cost – casualty to the heavy emotions that come with loss.

Every time I experience a win – usually an opposite result of my failing spectacularly at something; it was to him that I’d tell the highs and the woes of my story to. He’d always poke fun at all the delicious details, twists and turns of events; and then congratulate me for time well spent.

I’ve had a couple of those since then, you know; and it’s in those times that I’ve missed him most. I’d like to say it was nostalgia, but it's closer to pure desperation that I’d turn to his pages to feign a conversation.

Well today was one of those days.

I thought for sure when my boss called me into the meeting, that I was going to be praised for all the extra work I’d done. The courses, extra projects, and overtime I put in – finally, some appreciation!

But instead, what I received baffled me...“Due to unforeseen circumstances beyond our control; we’re so sorry, Shirley – but we have to let you go.”

Me: “When?” Them: “Effective immediately.”

As stunned and shocked as I was after that kind of blow, by some miracle I did manage to make it home. Changed into my comfy clothes, then started eating my emotions with my trusty spoon, pie, and tub of rocky road.

And in a last-ditch effort to help me avoid this fresh level of hell reality, I grabbed the last of my Dear Uncle Jon’s books to read.

And there, on the last little book’s Title page -

one lonely word occurred -

this book simply entitled:

“First”

As I turned the page to see what came next, tears flooded my eyes and stole my breath... three months ago to the day it reads:

Hello My Dear ‘Little’ Shirley-Rose, if you’re reading this, it means my Father finally called me home…

Please don’t waste much time dwelling on the past – trust me, the time we take for granted here on earth, quite frankly doesn’t last. Besides, there’s no point in beating yourself up for what could’ve been – it’s not like you can go back in time and change history.

I wish more than anything else that this was our normal back and forth, and not just a one-sided conversation... I’ve got so much to tell you, so much to say – but what I’d like to know is how you are my dear Shirley… how was your day? "Oh man, Uncle Jon…if you only knew."

I hope this note finds you well… and if not, – then I hope you’ve found it on a day that feels like you’ve been beaten down and dragged through hell. "How the...? What?" Either way you’ll know it’s never the end… you’ll always have me in your corner – and you can always get up and begin again.

I know it sounds easy for me to say – after all I’m gone anyway (*smile* is it too soon for jokes?) "Haha… soooo not funny," but seriously… I’ve walked through life that way. Restarting something, anything, is how you live without regret especially if in addition to that, you endeavor to remember exactly what I told you to never forget.

My wish for you is a life full of little things; plus everything else that you treasure most – stolen time with your loved ones, and the chase of your hopes, dreams and aspirations… that you pursue whatever truly fuels your soul – relentlessly –

I promise that when you do, if you couple your limitless imagination to your unwavering determination; you’ll spend most of your time here - in painfully blissful creation.

But be sure to take care of your self – money means nothing if you don’t have your health.

Now time is short, so I’ll begin closing with this…

Promise me that you’ll fight for your life as if your life depends on it… because it Shirley does. "Oh - haha Uncle Jon… I see whatcha did with the surely there."

Please don’t ever allow the world’s expectations and estimations of who you are, or who they think you should be, determine your worth or undermine your originality.

And while it’d seem according to some… that with these books you didn’t receive a damn thing...but to you little one, I give you my best, and the freedom to dream.

PS: Tucked somewhere between the pages marked twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth, you’ll find further proof of my belief in you and the remainder of your gift.

So of course, I turned the pages as fast as I could -

And resting gently between them -

was a cashier’s check -

for twenty thousand.

I lifted it up and had to take a second look...carefully written, in the margin:

My Dearest Little Shirley – this is – your very own little black book. What was my last, is now your first – I started it but I leave it to you to finish. All my love, Uncle Jon