I Remember Nothing But Love

By: Megan Minutillo, Guest Blogger

 

Memory is a funny thing.

A peculiar thing.

A perplexing thing.

It’s funny, the things that we remember when we lose someone.

You remember the way their eyes crinkled when they laughed, the way you seemed to fit perfectly in their arms, the moments of quiet companionship, you know, that ease of being with someone and not having to fill the space between you with words and chatter.

Because you just knew that they knew how much you loved them, how much they meant to you, how your life was better because of him or her.  And so, perhaps you didn’t feel the need to say it.

Because it was understood.

Unspoken, but understood.

And then, one day, they’re gone.

And maybe you start to regret not saying it. Not telling him or her how much you loved them. How much they meant to you. How you’ve become a better person because of knowing them.

Memory is a funny thing.

A peculiar thing.

A perplexing thing.

It’s funny, the things that we remember when we lose someone.

My great uncle died a little over a week ago.

hearts.jpg

He was my grandmother’s brother, and one of the greatest men I knew.

He was not a rich man.

He was not a famous man.

He was, quite simply, a good man.

He was the type of man that threads the stories of heroes together. He was the unseen hero. The quiet drum that kept a family moving forward…steady, strong, and together.

No matter what age a person is, no matter how prepared you think you are for a loved one’s death – it hits you in the gut and the heart when they die. There is no sugar coating that. There’s no metaphor that’ll make it a bit sweeter. It’s a sucker punch to the spirit, and there’s nothing I can say that’ll make that hurt any less.

But, my uncle’s passing, to quote his eldest daughter, “was a lesson in love.” It was a beautiful thing to watch people from every stage of this man’s life come and pay tribute to him. To honor him. To grieve his loss. To celebrate the gifts that he gave them.

To celebrate the gifts that he gave them.

See, it’s fitting that his death happened at such a time of year.  I can only hope that it’ll put some perspective into the lives of those he touched – that the greatest gifts are not something you can pluck off of a shelf.

No, they’re so much more than that. It’s the intangible. It’s the lessons. The love. The memories. The laughter. The stories. The knowledge that someone has loved you to their core – that is something that money cannot buy.

And that is what my Uncle Paul did for everyone he touched.

And I’m telling you, my dear girls, appreciate the Uncle Paul in your life. Don’t wait until it’s too late to shout your love from the rooftops, or whisper it in an ear – for it truly is the greatest gift of all.

Memory is a funny thing.

A peculiar thing.

A perplexing thing.

It’s funny, the things that we remember when we lose someone.

I remember coffee with heavy cream at the kitchen table.

I remember basketball games in the driveway.

I remember the way you made my grandmother light up and laugh.

I remember the sheer joy on your face when you looked at your wife,

Your children,

Your grandchildren.

 I remember Christmas Eve nights and the way you always listened.

 I remember nothing but love.

 

About Megan

Megan_Minutillo-Megan_Minutillo-0117.jpgMegan Minutillo is a playwright, director, and founder of the arts and education site, The Write Teacher(s). Her articles have appeared in HelloGiggles, So Worth Loving, I Am the Modern Career Girl, and Glass Heel. She is currently at work adapting her show, Ghosts in My Vodka, into a musical.

 

 

 

 

 

Featured image via thoughtcatalog.com

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