My Favourite Uncle By Chris Cotonou
Dear Uncle John,
You are dead. Gone, kaput; which means I’m writing this letter to a man that can neither read, nor reply back. So, if by some miracle you’re hovering over me as this is typed up, you’ll get the gist of the world you’re currently missing, which is not a place I would like to be, and yet is a place I am (keep up, dear John) and if you still long for this world—I’ll understand, Uncle. The virus took you, but didn’t take all of you.
I would ask you what death is like, now you are two weeks gone. It’s embarrassing to admit this, but I’ve always had a thing for Tarot cards (in particular the Marseilles type) and through various girlfriends, who you may – or may not – have met, some type of spirituality, or obsession for the occult. Yet you remember me as being cautious, a bit of a wise-ass—well, apparently, he writes letters to the dead. Now I’m in confinement, without anyone around, I’ll humour this side of my character! You can read this and you can hear me, and you are not gone. But, you are, aren’t you? Come on, John; make a sign, good man—I’m all ears. (I’ll even add it in.)
There’s loneliness in lockdown, and there’s speaking with the dead. But since I’ve got your ghoulish ear, there is a story I heard about you which I’d not known until you passed away. You saved a man’s life, didn’t you?
Alan Simmons of Someplace, Somewhere, Chichester, West Sussex; lived until he was seventy. Wouldn’t have if you weren’t around, though. If you hadn’t knocked on his door at the exact moment he was going to kill himself, smashed through the window and yanked his head out of the oven door. But you did, and half of Alan Simmons’ life was committed to your friendship, holidays with you and Aunty Maria in Portugal, while the other half he spent watching his kids and grandchildren grow up. He never stopped thanking you for that. You wouldn’t speak about this, Uncle John, and would that I could be half the man you are, with my boastful – silly, and loud – ways. (I would’ve painted it on the walls of the Cathedral.)
We lived in London, and you in the South. You were born in a poor village in Cyprus during days of Empire, and I in the greatest city in the world. You fought, fought, and fought. I inherited all that you and my grandmother worked for. It’s funny, but she showed me some old pictures of you from the seventies, and I have to say, easy tiger — fully bespoke suits, wide collars, some sort of pomade-sculpted hair thing where your head is meant to be; the bling. Lots and lots of bling.
In some ways, I’m suited to a quarantine. Those who live in their heads find nothing particularly inspiring from a walk to the shops, anyway. You used to say I was a bit of a daydreamer. It’s all a matter of perspective I think: this is why good things make me feel bad, and bad things make me feel less guilty. I’m never content with anything: couldn’t work with anyone for more than a year. But you, you stayed in the same barbershop for fifty years – barely had a day off, and didn’t complain, not once. How?
Seriously, how did you do it—and still find time to be happy? Did you know that someone from the Chichester Echo popped into aunties, and asked about your death? He wanted to push the virus story, paint you as a casualty; so, they told him where to stick it. The mayor (one of your customers, apparently) is holding a street-party in your honour, for being an ‘integral and devoted member of the community.’ They’re having a plaque made near your barbershop.
