My uncle Bob died last week.

It’s difficult to think about. My aunt divorced him last year so technically he wasn’t my uncle anymore. But…my aunt was married to him for 33 years. I will always know the time because of the story behind their marriage in the first place. My aunt, with her new boyfriend, was still broken up. No one blames her. My uncle had dug his own holes and burned his bridges. But 33 years is a long time.

Originally he and my aunt had only wanted to move in together…had they done this, they mayn’t have ever gotten married. But they chose the worst possible time to tell my grandparents…on the eve of my parents wedding. My mother, sixteen and several months pregnant with me was in the midst of planning a shotgun wedding with my father. So when my aunt broke the news to my then Catholic grandparents they broke into tears. It was decided that since the entire family was there anyway, my aunt would be married the day after my mother. Their wedding pictures look very similar…they used the same tuxes, blue. The same people are there…it’s all very odd.

My uncle used to play hide and seek with us in the woods. He’d sneak up on us and scare us. He took us sledding and let us jump on the bed in the guest room or read in the den of his house. I think he may not of liked it but he let us.

The last time I saw him was five years ago. He was laying on my grandparents couch, with my dog, then a very tiny puppy, sitting on his chest. He laughed.

He fought with my dad, he didn’t like to travel or family holidays, he had people help him around his house but refused to help others.

But he was my uncle.