First Uncle (and Aunt): 174 Series Part 3

 

1971 was something different for my uncle.

 

An adrenaline laden youth of 20s, his hands knew barren browns, machine guns and blood. Unkempt beard and moustache, bullet wounds and a yearning of his mother’s sunshine.

 

Lots of it. To the extent the rims of his eyes appeared the same.

 

He had seen his own blood too. But not enough to ink a red carpet and a grim reaper in tow. When the only ink he knew is the one between the pages, which paint a cassette tape and hilt of a cricket bat.

 

Grandfather didn’t know if to ponder over it.

 

My reminisce only sketches one picture: his tall silhouette warmed with blankets, uncomfortably bent limbs, and a lisp I never deciphered why. Until the gruesome experience that shadowed his existence unfurled in front of me.

 

My meagre aged self didn’t view it as extraordinary in the grand scheme of things. But it was, and still is.

 

I didn’t even inform myself of how my aunt, or his two children felt.

 

Childish mistake, skill issue, ignorant move - you name it however you see fit.

 

My aunt is rather docile, rather simple yet orthodox views murk her psyche than any other in my larger family. Although her efforts are least persistent in making us contemplate and skeptic of what we juveniles know.

 

Much younger than the rest of my elders, the loss of her best half left her in a desolate wasteland. One son, one daughter, and a world to contend. Yet she treads on, with hands not to hold, but he held on with a not-severed twin life-forces.