I really do not know what I would feel or how I would react.
I just discovered that my uncle has been dead for five days now.
As an immediate member of his family, since he is my uncle, I should be crying hysterically or be in melancholia. But I am not. I am currently watching television and waiting for my phone to be fully charged. Sad? Not. Depressed? No. And I don't know why I feel this way. In fact, I am glad that he died.
Now don't give me that you-are-an-ungrateful-piece-of-gene look. You don't know half of him. I don't know half of him. But I will try to.
The only memory of my uncle that lingers in my head is his voice. His raspy, toneless, almost soundless voice. I remember that you have to force open your ear canal to make the mouth movements make sense. I remember that you have to hold your breath while listening up close to him because his breath smelled like nicotine. I remember his few teeth, sparsely spaced between his gum. I remember his gray hair unkempt and tousled, his ragged clothes. His children who sink in the dark whenever we come and visit. I remember their house, the creaky old hut that grandma wants to live into, I remember the hard pump they are using. The one that you need to sweat bullets to get a bucket of water. I remember him stooping across the yard to greet us when we visit. I remember him lending food and cigarettes from the nearby store. I remember him planting orchids. I remember him eating gruel. I remember his wrinkled face. I I remember him coughing, I remember him crying when grandma was dead. I remembered him looking devastated that his son committed a crime. I remember him.
He was suffering from cigarette addiction. Narcoticism if it was an ideology. He was a chain smoker. He'd rather smoke than eat. He'd rather smoke that clean his rickety house. He'd rather smoke that find a living. He'd rather smoke than fix his life.
And now that smoking succumbed what was needed to be fixed, he'd rather let go than fight. For a person who knows the effects of a life in smoke, I pity him. But as a relative, I agree that he had let go. At least for now, he can rest somewhere that does not sell cigarettes.
I just discovered that my uncle has been dead for five days now.
As an immediate member of his family, since he is my uncle, I should be crying hysterically or be in melancholia. But I am not. I am currently watching television and waiting for my phone to be fully charged. Sad? Not. Depressed? No. And I don't know why I feel this way. In fact, I am glad that he died.
Now don't give me that you-are-an-ungrateful-piece-of-gene look. You don't know half of him. I don't know half of him. But I will try to.
The only memory of my uncle that lingers in my head is his voice. His raspy, toneless, almost soundless voice. I remember that you have to force open your ear canal to make the mouth movements make sense. I remember that you have to hold your breath while listening up close to him because his breath smelled like nicotine. I remember his few teeth, sparsely spaced between his gum. I remember his gray hair unkempt and tousled, his ragged clothes. His children who sink in the dark whenever we come and visit. I remember their house, the creaky old hut that grandma wants to live into, I remember the hard pump they are using. The one that you need to sweat bullets to get a bucket of water. I remember him stooping across the yard to greet us when we visit. I remember him lending food and cigarettes from the nearby store. I remember him planting orchids. I remember him eating gruel. I remember his wrinkled face. I I remember him coughing, I remember him crying when grandma was dead. I remembered him looking devastated that his son committed a crime. I remember him.
He was suffering from cigarette addiction. Narcoticism if it was an ideology. He was a chain smoker. He'd rather smoke than eat. He'd rather smoke that clean his rickety house. He'd rather smoke that find a living. He'd rather smoke than fix his life.
And now that smoking succumbed what was needed to be fixed, he'd rather let go than fight. For a person who knows the effects of a life in smoke, I pity him. But as a relative, I agree that he had let go. At least for now, he can rest somewhere that does not sell cigarettes.
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