Dust covered shelves and a rotten fridge is all he left behind. Despite all the clutter this Queens, NY apartment seemed so empty. Box after box of meaningless possessions. Every so often finding a familiar piece of my Uncle. Something to remind me that at some point in time he existed right where I was standing, where I was grieving. A Thanksgiving day I will never get back.

The collision of my father’s voice and my heaving chest, thickened the air. Loud sighs became silent sobs as minutes passed like hours. My thoughts were so forceful I could almost feel them as if they were trying to leap from my lips just to break the silence. My father still holding the phone, dazed and confused. “Uncle Mike passed away” he uttered helplessly from his hospital bed.

My Uncle Mike had lost his battle with cancer and AIDS. I knew he was sick, but I was unaware of what little time we had left. Everything in my life changed the moment that phone rang. Everything down to the way I woke up in the morning, to how I faced the mirror. The sky was always grey in my world, even on the brightest days. I couldn’t blame him for the abandonment that dwelled at the forefront of my mind,  but I had to place it somewhere. I hadn’t just lost my uncle, I lost that safe place I found growing up. He was my protection against my father’s favoritism between me and my twin sister.

All I could hope for is a chance to relate to him on a different level, a level I was unable to at such a young age. To tell him of my “coming out” and learn about his. I always knew he was gay, but I wasn’t old enough to have that conversation with him. Consequently, by the time I had learned of my own sexual orientation, he was already gone and it was too late. I never got the companionship and support he could have offered me.

Just to see his face again and receive his simple smile. The park where we used to walk would seem so empty now without him.  I wish I could take him there, just to have that vision of him on the basketball court. We would watch the old men playing bocce, giving us both a sense of where we came from and stories to talk about when we got back home.

To bring him back for a day, to a world he wouldn’t know, seems almost cruel. I’d imagine he’d want to return to the old Italian-American community he knew so well but no longer exists. The hope of reliving old memories is somewhat impossible. Grilling on the back deck, watching the other kids play in the alley way. Car rides to the mall blasting his new CDs, shaping my taste in music.

I would want him to see me and who I’ve become. Introduce him to my new life and show him all the things I’ve accomplished. I know I wouldn’t have to tell him how desperately I’ve missed him, but I’m sure it would slip out. To finally hold an adult conversation with him would be more than I could ask for. I picture us talking and laughing, sharing stories we never got the chance to before. I’d want to hear about his life growing up and how he came to be.

The thought of having him back for a whole day is both terrifying and exciting. My worst fear is missing him even more after my time with him is done. Losing him a second time seems unbearable. I’ve seen him in my dreams so many times, but only in flashes.

Its hard to say exactly what I would want to with my Uncle Mike for a day. In the long run I think anything would be wonderful. Nothing that we could do would fix what happened or make it hurt any less. However, one thing would be to have our last Thanksgiving meal together. Spend the whole day cooking and preparing that Thanksgiving we never got to have, the Thanksgivings he’s missed and to make up for the Thanksgivings he will continue to miss.

Author wishes to remain anonymous.