avatarDenise Garratt

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Words Left Unspoken

A story about grief and sudden loss.

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Death lurked in his voice.

Tears rolled down my cheeks with his “hello”.

When did this happen? I spoke to him a week ago, and he sounded healthy. His baritone voice still deep.

I sank to the floor, resting my forehead on my knees, with the phone pressed against my ear. A position I folded myself into for every heart-breaking phone call since childhood.

“Hey, Muchacha Kid, how’s the weather over there in California? We’re having quite the heat wave.”

It hurt to hear him speak. His voice so frail it scared me.

Why hadn’t I gone home sooner?

When we hung up, I booked a flight to Michigan. The call with Uncle Joe left me unsettled and shaken. I hoped it was just the heat taking a toll on his voice, but my gut knew better.

Later that week, my ten-month-old son and I were on a plane headed to Detroit Metro. Uncle Frank offered to pick us up at the airport, and I gladly accepted.

My marriage was showing signs of unraveling, and I looked forward to spending time with my family in Michigan, away from the chaos of my life in California. I dreaded the thought of walking into something worse. Bringing my son to Michigan was the one positive thing that kept me grounded. It was the first time my family would get to meet him.

I called Uncle Joe to let him know I was coming home for a visit. His was voice wasn’t any stronger, but he was upbeat. He said he didn’t want me going through “bad neighborhoods” to get to the house.

The neighborhoods weren’t the problem. The real reason was that he didn’t want me to see the condition of our house, the one I grew up in. I was sure I’d already seen it at its worst, although Aunt Sarah and Uncle Frank swore it was even more run-down than when I lived there.

Uncle Joe didn’t need added stress, so if he wasn’t comfortable with me staying at our house, I wouldn’t. Before I had the chance to ask, Uncle Tony and Aunt Marlene offered to let me stay with them, about twenty minutes away.

It was the first time back to Michigan since leaving in 1985. I called Uncle Joe as soon as I got in and we made plans to meet for lunch the next day.

My body was on West Coast time. Between that and the humidity, I knew there wouldn’t be much sleep in my future. After a long day of flying, my son fell into a deep sleep, oblivious to time or weather.

I flipped my pillow over, hoping to find a cool spot, disappointed each time. After a while, I gave up and took my sheet and pillow into the living room, hoping the open windows might bring in a breeze. As I was going over everything I wanted to say to Uncle Joe tomorrow, I finally felt myself drifting off into sleep.

Disoriented, I bolted upright out of a deep sleep, my heart pounded. The sheers billowed toward me in a breeze too cold for a sweltering August night. I Struggled to get my bearings and searched for anything that had a clock. The house was pitch black. Four and two blurry numbers were all I could make out.

My skin prickled, and I picked up the sheet and pillow and moved back to the bedroom. I chalked it up to nerves and jet lag, even though I looked behind me more than once on the way back to bed. What was I afraid of?

Aunt Marlene knocked on the bedroom door at seven in the morning. I was awake, but hadn’t showered yet. “Come in.” I said.

She opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway looking at me for several moments before speaking.

“Honey, your Aunt Sarah called this morning and I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

If Uncle Joe canceled lunch with me today, I’d just go to the house. He wouldn’t turn me away once I was there.

Aunt Marlene spoke again, and I must have misunderstood.

“I’m so sorry Honey, your Uncle Joe died in his sleep early this morning.”

No. no. no. This can’t be happening. My skin prickled again thinking about the weird chilly breeze in the front room. What time had that been?

I couldn’t comprehend the words. Sobs burned in my chest until I ached. I was here. So close. Why did I listen to him? I should have gone over last night. There were so many things left unsaid. To thank him, to apologize for all the hard times we had. To tell him I understood. He never got to see Andy. My head was in a fog and my heart too numb and broken to let it sink in.

Aunt Sarah and Uncle Frank walked into the funeral home with me. Tonight was Uncle Joe’s rosary service. I looked around in a daze. Family and neighbors I hadn’t seen in years were there. Each time someone hugged me or spoke to me put me on the verge of breaking down. I answered questions not remembering what anyone said, including myself.

My eyes tried to ignore the open casket on the other end of the room, but it wasn’t working. This wasn’t my first funeral, and I knew I needed to see him or add more to my list of regrets.

My cousins Joe and John walked towards me.

“Have you been to see him?” Joe asked.

I tried to croak out “no”, but shook my head instead.

They stood on either side of me and walked me to Uncle Joe’s casket. As I approached him, my knee buckled out from under me and my thoughts went fuzzy. My vision turned into a narrowing tunnel, beads of sweat trickled down my back and thought I might black out. Arms on mine braced me, I didn’t drop all the way down. This was the first time I’d seen him since the day I walked out of our house.

He looked different. He’d lost so much weight that I almost didn’t recognize him. The Gallardo eyebrows were still there, and they brought a smile to my face. It wasn’t the man who raised me. Not the WWII Vet, or the man who held my hand and walked me to my first day of kindergarten. Not the man, just the body.

Thoughts swirled as I walked away. Maybe he planned it this way. Maybe knowing I was there helped him let go. What if he didn’t want me to see him when he wasn’t well? All the men in our family had a touch of stubborn male pride. They dressed impeccably for every occasion, the pleats in their pants sharp as knives.

The priest was speaking, and it was time for us to sit down but his words sounded garbled, as if he was under water. I couldn’t hold back. Loud guttural sobs wracked my body. The pain poured out in torrents and wouldn’t stop. I thought back to Aunt Sarah struggling during Grandma’s funeral.

My cousin Debbie kneeled in front of me during the service, hugging me as I broke into a million tiny pieces.

After the service, I looked into the crowd and spotted my cousins again. This time it was all three of Uncle Joe’s sons, standing together. The images of them, side by side, were carbon copies of him at different stages of his life. How strange it was to have just lost him yet feel as though I had found three younger versions of him.

This true short story is born from the grief I’ve experienced every August since 1985.

Thirty-two years later, the words I left unspoken are what shatter me. I’ve forgiven myself, but I have to process my grief each year.

May you never experience words left unspoken.

Life
Mental Health
Short Story
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