Uncle Michael
His ramrod back, his brill-creamed hair
and waxed moustache gave him a certain air,
a certain dash, and a military bearing.
His speech was clipped. He walked his stick
with sergeant major's flick.
His corduroys were always neatly creased
and Liberty cravat was tucked and teased
just so within pressed collar.
When I was six, when I was nine, he smelled
of oils and turpentine. His painter's smock,
his donned beret, the memory of finest days
spent long in summer holidays while drawing
boats upon the beach and teaching me to
see each shape, to look at nook and
shadow, and learning how to place the
paint from palate onto canvas.
I adored him. He was a father friend to me,
and I was like the son he never had,
nor could he ever have.
Our time was always fun, like that between
beloved father and a much loved son.
We watched Jaques Tati films in matinees
and laughed until I cried on happy days
spent with my mother's only brother,
my upright uncle Michael.
When I was sixteen I saw him less. We lived
quite far apart and I spent not much time in
Kent and he hardly ever came to Cambridge.
It was not for me to know the diseasing rot
beneath his skin, or colostomy bag not quite
concealed and hanging by his thigh,
revealed in darker privacy of Kentish cottage bedroom.
And then one Sunday afternoon while sitting
on the sofa, watching something on the box,
mother suddenly began to swoon.
She came quite unwell all over, no longer
strong and feeling faint soon made to
go upstairs and said, 'Something's very wrong.'
Her mind seemed gripped with fear and
dread, and climbing each unhappy stair,
she slowly made her way to bed.
Then father took an evening call.
A shotgun in the shed. My aunt was out she'd
left the house. When she came back she found him.
He'd shot himself. He'd shut shed door and
shot himself, both barrels through the head.
'Son, your uncle Michael's gone, your uncle Michael's dead.'
And no one thought to tell me then that he
was slowly dying. Not wanting wife to bear
that strain and sparing both to share his pain,
the day had come to end his life.
That conspiracy of silence broke me.
Confusion for that teenage boy, and thoughts
that raced right through his mind with sweaty
sleepless nights, began to grind away all
remnant of his sanity.
Days were brought up short at school, and
then he didn't go at all, but wandered room to
room at home, and banged his head upon the wall.
And how much kinder would it have been
if someone thoughtful simply said the reason
for that shotgun shed, had seen the reason
for my mother's dread, which I learned so much later.
And now, once in a while, I draw and paint.
I've not seen Tati's funny films again.
I'd like to think that if I saw them,
I'd like to think I'd laugh out loud,
those memories of that grieving boy,
spared by the laughter we once shared.
I'd hope that final memory would not spoil
and taint the joy, that joy with Mon Oncle Michael.
Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2020
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