Family

I am writing this because I need to write it. I am writing this because I know that it will never be read by who I want it to be read by, but in my heart of hearts I hope they stumble across it, and they have understanding. 

Family is a funny thing to me. And I suppose, if I want to be good about this, I need to start at the beginning if I want to have the intended ending. When I was little, my mom's mom (grandma) was my babysitter. I was always around family and adults, because I was the first grandchild and had the luxury of their undivided attention. I think this is what started it, this constant blanket of protection and soft laughter and voices and kind, older faces that fed me buttered noodles and "crumpets." I loved it. Not just the attention, but the fact that there was always someone around, and we were always going somewhere to do something with people who loved us. This was my mother's side of the family. She has a sister and two brothers, who both have families, and who all used to get together for big Christmas's at my grandma's house. It literally was "over the river and through the woods", with mounds of white snow and a real fireplace, old oak trees and a busy side street that bustled into town, and a neighborhood full of little children and twinkling colored lights. 

My dad's side was different. He has three brothers (one whole, two halves). They scared me and fascinated me all at the same time, because they were young and good-natured and sarcastic, and they loved my little brother to pieces. Being seventeen now and looking back, I'm sure they loved me just as well, but my childish mind at the time was timid and convinced that they didn't really like me. I almost dreaded seeing them because I couldn't bring myself to believe they were interested in me at all. We went to see dad's family first during the holidays, and always the day before the actual event. For example, we went to Nana's house on Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, and grandma's house on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. Nana's house was sophisticated, because my dad's parents aren't together and she lived in a neat little townhouse and she never looked any older than 45 and smelled like Red by Giorgio. And two of my uncles, Jason and Stephen, were always there. I would want to be so impressive and act so grown up, only to seem more childish and snotty. 

After we moved, family became estranged and lost a great deal of the  importance I once attached to it in my childhood. My support system had dissolved, so I found different things to stand on. A church family, good grades, books, piano, and a few close friends filled in the gaps, and they still do a decent job. But lately, I long to have grown up here. To still have that support system that will never leave, like some of the friends I have who don't seem to understand how blessed they are. But that is not the point of this blog (which is turning out to be much longer than I anticipated). 

The real point is my uncle. My dad's only full brother, who never seems to be around; for some reason, I always strove for his approval more than anyone else's, and he never knew. I think we are a lot alike, in some ways. But the only things that make up who I expect him to be are the things that my dad or my Nana have told me about him. I watched him from a distance as a child, and now, as an almost-adult, I still do. It's so funny that he requested to be my friend on Facebook, of all places, and now these memories and realizations come flooding in like the tide. My uncle is someone I remember as being quiet. I remember him as laughing over some joke that went way over my head, exchanging awkward gifts with other family members during the holidays, and as being melancholy. I believe that childhood gives you a sort of sensitivity that leaves you as you get older- I always sensed a detached air around him, as though he never really wanted to be there. I do not believe that family was ever so important to him as, well, everyone and everything else. I still feel that way, years and miles later, and it makes me wonder. I can't say that I was ever close to him, but I wanted to be close, and still do. I love my uncle, and more than anything else I want to be able to sit down with him, talk to him, ask him about life. I wrote him an email once. It was one of the most forward emails I have ever written, and bluntly honest. I wasn't surprised, and not a little hurt, to receive no response. I don't know what he's doing now, really. I called him on Thanksgiving (awkward.) I ask my dad why he doesn't call and check up on him. I only ask about him, not really anyone else. Everyone else, it seems, can take care of themselves, but I feel as though Jason can't. I am probably very wrong. What do I know? I don't know him. But I can't shake it, and this deep care about him has been in my heart for years and years... this mysterious man who I will never really know. I foolishly say that it is only my faith that keeps me from being his mirror image. 

The only thing I really want from him is a phone call. Heck, I'd be happy with a letter, anemail, even a stupid Facebook message. That would make my Christmas, even if I never saw him again. I want to tell him that I love him as his niece, that I hope he finds whatever sort of happiness he's looking for, that God still has a plan for his life, that I want to name my first boy-child after him. Jason. 

Oh, family.