“My uncle just passed away,” are words I’ve repeated several times this week. Most people react with a concerned look, asking me, “Were you close?” To which I respond, “I don’t really know.” These types of conversations have been transporting me back to the last time I saw him in person: The day of my grandmother’s funeral.

(Please note: The following rendition is fuzzy, so if I’m wrong about any details, that’s OK. I’m not going to change it because this is how I remember it. So there…)

Back Then

The air was stale in the 1980’s-era church that morning. Carpets: burgundy. Walls: wood-paneled, as expected. A single, white-robed minister droned on at the front of the room as a handful of onlookers glared at him; some crying, some sleepy-eyed, some just patiently waiting for permission to get up.

I sat near the front-right corner of the room, perplexed and wondering whether I’d ever heard my grandmother talk about Jesus, or the bible, or anything remotely related to religion. It felt so odd, listening to him speak from The Book—some random passage that didn’t seem at all connected. It felt like he hadn’t known her…But then again, maybe I hadn’t either…

I don’t recall there being a picture of her on that day, as there sometimes is at funerals—often tripoded up somewhere near the casket. It’s a shame, too. She had the biggest smile I’d ever seen on such a small face, with cheeks that made my own make sense. I wouldn’t have described her as “kind,” necessarily. Maybe “hardened” but also “often smiling,” to the point where I questioned whether she wore her mask for herself or everyone else.

The sermon carried on, as I glanced around to note how small the audience was. It was surprising because I remember traveling the 7 hours from Austin to Lubbock every year for Thanksgiving and that woman knew how to draw a crowd. It was truly impressive what she could pull off in such a small kitchen, and for so many people. These days, that old house with the green steel storm door, etched with the giant “G” for “Garrett,” is only an empty lot where not even a ghost would wish to wander. It’s just gone—burned to the ground on the local news a few years before her passing. A fire sparked by a stranger’s stray cigarette, if you can believe it.

About 15 minutes into the severely disconnected service, the rear doors flew open disruptively, painting the pews in a harsh desert sunlight. He trudged in slowly, allowing everyone time to turn and take him in, as the minister stopped speaking. He seemed shorter than I remembered, in his beat-to-hell cowboy boots, ripped jeans caging skinny legs, old bargain button-down shirt stretched over a surely liquor-filled belly, and a dusty tweed blazer that seemed to proclaim, “Funerals are stupid, but I still fricken dressed up.” He wore an old straw cowboy hat, all chewed up around the edges by Lubbock’s notoriously sandy air. He held 3 small leashes attached to 3 little yappy dogs who were full of energy. I’m pretty sure one of them pissed on the floor as he dragged them, sniffing and panting and yip-yapping up the path. I remember wondering, at what point did my uncle go from a distinguished roofer to a chihuahua wrangler?

He wore a fanny pack with the zipper bursting open to reveal cash: bills of all denominations, as he, very slowly, walked up through the middle of the church, making his way into every human-filled row. The whole scene appeared to be all about him connecting with people individually—as if intentionally coaxing emotion out of each one of us. 

As I watched him move through the church—pouring his heart out into hugs and unhindered sobs—I noticed how uncomfortable my dad was, twitching in his button up shirt and hole-less blue jeans, clearing his throat but keeping mostly quiet. I still smiled to myself—because I knew that not even an exceptionally imaginative writer could make this stuff up.

When Billie Joe got to me, we hugged briefly but in a way that seemed to say both, “I’ve missed you all these years” and “I might not see you again.” It had been well over a decade since we’d seen each other. It was obvious he was in pain—a truth he openly shared with everyone that day. The whole scene was a christening drenched in his own personal scent: a cologne with notes of “musty old-timer” and “cheap whiskey.” For whatever reason, I didn’t mind it. The event helped me feel more lively than I had in the preceding days, as I’d been running around Lubbock reconnecting with family I think I’d been subconsciously avoiding since childhood.

What can I say, Lubbock is hard for me to visit sometimes. It tends to make me feel kind of sad, and I’ve never been sure exactly why that is. I can’t help but notice how people seem to just…stay there, forever, doing the same old things for years. I can feel it radiating off of them: this sense of melting into the glum.

And here was my uncle, the honorary Black Sheep of the family—who when I was a child used to sing Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” at the top of his lungs from a riding mower to impress us kids. I thought he was super cool back then, with his dark sunglasses and motorcycle-rider vibe.

On the day of Margie’s funeral, he shook me out of unconsciousness in a place where I didn’t think it was possible to do so. Where everyone else in that room saw disrespect, I saw honesty. Where my dad saw an unhinged clown show, I saw a grown-up child, pouring out his feelings into a room that seemed like it needed permission to feel. He was hurting and he didn’t care who knew it. He hated funerals. I imagine he saw them as performative and impersonal. I’d have to agree with him. And I imagine that wherever Margie Garrett was at that moment, she was far from offended. I thought it was truly beautiful, in a strange way.

These Days

Now, roughly 5 years later, it seems I’m headed back to Doldrum-Ville, this time to say goodbye to my uncle. At first, it was difficult to be sad because, truth be told, I’d gotten to the point where I was screening his calls (he knew it, too). I saw it as protecting my energy. He was difficult to talk to sometimes, and that had only gotten worse over the years.

Needless to say, I was feeling a little disconnected from the news, and that bothered me. So, I tried to force the feelings by listening to some old voicemails he’d left me. The process reminded me of something he’d tell me during every single call (the ones I answered). He’d always say, “I will always love you,” often with a hard emphasis on the “always,” as if he knew I needed convincing. Sometimes he’d call me just to say that, like he thought it’d be the last time—or like he wanted me to think it would be…

In true “me” fashion, I had a hard time accepting his words on most occasions. I’ve come to find that when someone adamantly professes how special I am to them, I can’t trouble myself to believe it.

Well, I was on my way to the store the other day and something weird happened. I was driving alone, and I felt this rush of warmth and happiness come over me out of nowhere. It surprised me, and I noted how I wish I could feel that way all the time. The sun was setting and everything outside was blanketed in a silvery-pink light. A song most people know was on the radio (The Cure’s, “Love Song”), so naturally I’m singing along: “However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you. Whatever words I say, I will always love you. I will always love you…”

Suddenly, the radio signal cut out, as the words hung in my thoughts, trailing off but still ever-present as chills began to cover my arms and scroll across my body. Then, I noticed the time on my car’s internal clock read “8:06 PM,” which felt familiar—so at the light, I opened my phone, scrolled to “Billie Joe” in my contacts list, and my suspicions were confirmed. His area code in Lubbock, which I’d not paid much attention to until that moment, was “806.”

Right there at the stop light, I let the tears stream down my cheeks—because I just knew that was him saying “Goodbye” in his fashion. It’s like he was “calling me up” one last time to say those words again, in a way that meant I couldn’t screen his calls or run and tumbleweed myself 7 hours away from him.

So, I guess I found it hard to be sad initially because of how we left things. When I got the news this week, it had been months since we’d actually spoke—and that time when we did, truthfully, I was a little uncomfortable with the call. He sounded drunk and he was being kind of sassy and rude to me, as he often was. That’s likely why I’ve been struggling to answer the question, “Were you close?” 

But now, maybe my answer will be, “I’d like to think we were.”