Uncle Steve

We got an email today from my parents that my Uncle Steve died on Sunday.  It’s a typical story: one day he wasn’t feeling quite right; the next day he was terminally ill.  Cancer.

I wrote him a letter about a month and a half ago, but never got around to sending it.  It was a simple note, just thanking him for the things he taught me.  I am too late.  Any death is a reminder of the urgency to live.  There is no time to dawdle, like I did with my letter.

Uncle Steve was a city transit bus driver.  I rode his bus sometimes when I was in University.  At City Hall stop, he once took on an extremely belligerent passenger.  Uncle Steve listened and showed empathy and calmed the man down and let him on his bus.  At age 20, I was astounded at such diplomacy, as I sat there cowling and wondering if bus drivers were allowed to carry weapons. Nothing like that necessary for Uncle Steve.   In a 3 minute interaction, he taught me charity and civility.

I imagine he died with the same calm and unblinking resolve.

We are in Paris.  The apartment is fine.  We are fine.  Tomorrow is another opportunity to do something.