by Portia Choi
You were our uncle, since your sister was our mother.
But you were more like an older brother, just four years older than me.
We called you “uncle”, and you would smile, knowing of our affection for you.
I remember how you listened to me, as a teenager, mostly about boys.
You were always so kind to me, since I was the youngest when you visited us
as children in Korea.
When you died suddenly a month ago, I did not cry. Such a surprise.
I felt mostly for your wife of fifty years; we are about the same age.
I felt for her, a life now without you;
someone to call “dear”, have talks, the daily “expectations and assumptions”.
Months ago,
our sister was saying that she will talk to you, uncle,
to get the true stories of our past since you were the eldest
with the most remembrances.
One story: Mother was taken away by a soldier to be shot,
and surprisingly released. Was it before the Korean War, or during it?
The days and weeks passed.
And you died before we had a chance to ask you.
By you leaving suddenly,
your quiet advice to me is to take time and get to know each other.
So I called sister, living hundreds of miles away. I got to thank her for
watching over me as a child.
I watched the video-sermons of our younger brother living on an island.
I joined his live-virtual meetings with his parishioners.
We ask each other, “How is your soul today?”
My soul is comforted just to be with our younger-living brother;
just seeing him, listening to his thoughts.
Thank you, uncle; our sweet, smiling “brother-uncle”.
Portia Choi published a chapbook of her poems Sungsook, Korean War Poems. At Writers of Kern (WOK) meetings, Portia met other writers who became friends and mentors. She hosts First Friday Open Mic and publicizes National Poetry Month in April. She administers www.kernpoetry.com. Contact Portia at [email protected].
Beautiful connection, Portia, and a reminder not to wait. Thank you. xoA ♥️