My sister and I would go and visit them. If we stayed overnight we all slept in the big room in the attic. There were 2 double beds that faced each other from opposite walls. Auntie and my sister would sleep in the bed on the left while Uncle Horace and I would sleep on the right. I never felt as secure as when we were all tucked in for the night. Normally Auntie and Uncle Horace slept downstairs in their bedroom, but when we stayed they slept in the attic with us so we wouldn’t be scared.
Eventually they sold the house and moved to the country. Not long after that Auntie had a stroke and died. We all went to the funeral and I held onto Uncle Horace all day. When we returned to the house he marched straight back to their bedroom returning a few moments later carrying Auntie’s china doll. He carefully placed her in my arms and said, “She always said you were to have this. I gave her this doll before I went to fight in World War I.” I have treasured that doll and that memory ever since.
After that we didn’t see much of Uncle Horace. My parents apparently didn’t make the time to drive out to see him anymore which meant I couldn’t see him either. Later I heard he’d moved into a nursing home. Eventually I assumed he’d died.
A few years ago I went to visit their graves. I wanted to take a moment to let them know what they had meant to me. An oasis of love and acceptance in a childhood riddled with pain and fear. I placed flowers on their graves, and told them I loved them. That’s when I noticed Horace’s death date. He’d been alive when I married. He could have been at my wedding! I’ve worked hard to accept that I didn’t abandon him personally. I was a child and thus limited in what I could do. But I miss those opportunities I could have had with him to give and receive love and acceptance.
His is the first face I’ll look for in heaven.
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