Perhaps

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I left home at 4:00 AM. With almost two hours to spare before my flight, I arrived at the airport. There was no need to check luggage for the day trip.

Pass security, I took a deep breath while I redressed.

I didn’t get the VIP pat down that usually comes with traveling through TSA’s security checkpoints. So, I pulled my leather belt back through the loops of my pants and walked with ease through the terminals.

I found a seat near the gate and pulled out my journal.

The next two sentences came while waiting for my flight to leave.

I’m in the airport and heading to LA for my Uncle Leo’s funeral. It’s crazy to write that sentence.

I wrote three more pages before the plane departed. Wheels up, cruising altitude met, I pulled out my laptop and continued.

Who would have thought that our last conversation would have been our last? I didn’t see it.

In Ta Nehesi Coates’s book, The Message, he says writing allows him to talk with ancestors.

Perhaps I can experience something similar.

If I mentally return to the summer of 2022, I can see you walk into my parent’s house with a slight curve in your back. It shocked me to see you hunched over in that position. In your nearly 80 years of life, you lost the ability to stand upright. 

We hugged, and after a few moments, we made small talk about big topics relative to our lives.

You asked me about politics, current events, and running. Biden was in office, and while things were not great, it wasn’t our current situation with tariffs and anti-diversity legislation. I had just finished a marathon in Ventura.

It was one of my better races. I was supposed to stay with you the night before, but our communication wires crossed, and I booked a hotel.

You apologized and promised to make it up to me. I confirmed you would get your chance when I returned to run in the next race.

After you placed the flowers you brought for my mom in a vase, our visit ended. You returned to Ventura, and I went to Antigua. Work kept me on the island for two more years.

Did you know I moved to northern California in December?

You passed away in March before I could see you again.  

I wanted to run another marathon in Ventura and see you cheer from the sidelines. It won’t happen.

Perhaps I will still run the race in remembrance of you.

Late Tuesday night, I returned from your funeral.

Perhaps you would’ve appreciated everything the family said about you.

They remembered.

How you showed love; how you listened to them; how you supported your brothers and sisters.

They remembered.

How you started businesses; how you employed family; how you shared your profits.

They remembered you.

I laced my shoes and ran a little over 10 miles yesterday. Before I left, I touched your cowboy hat. I wore it at your services, and now it is hung from a rack in my garage.

Every time I am blessed to run from home, I will remember.

You would’ve been impressed to know that your love for running transferred to another generation.

Perhaps. Uncle.