Never Say Goodbye

My Uncle Anthony was a music lover and a dancer. The Hustle King of East Flatbush Brooklyn, well, not officially, but he was to me. He loved his cologne and his scent would trail through our house and linger in the hallway for hours after he left for work. But far greater than his carefully curated cologne shelf, music collection, and his dance moves that made the ladies swoon; were his dresser drawers full of t-shirts. 

Uncle Anthony had a t-shirt for every occasion and a t-shirt to solidify every single, solitary vacation he ever took. From trips to Lake George, Vero Beach, Florida or a weekender to Great Adventure - he wore all of them with great pride. Paired with jogging pants and ski white slip on sneakers, his t-shirts were often long, large and awkward fitting because he was short in stature. But he didn’t care. Through an abundance of t-shirt purchases, I was convinced he had single handedly supported local businesses, films, musicians and vacation souvenir shops alike.

When my Uncle passed away, a light went off in my world. His cologne no longer lingered in the air. I couldn’t hear his laugh or his keys jingling on the waist of his pants, a sign that he was walking toward you. He was gone, and we were left with boxes. I sat in his bedroom, at the senior center where he spent the last few years of his life, and unearthed DVDs, cassettes, CDs, half empty bottles of cologne and one full box of Girls Gone Wild VHS tapes. A new discovery. I laughed through my tears. Uncle Anthony, always a fan of the ladies and, apparently, the naughty number one would call during a sleepless night alone to place orders for these tapes. 

There were two boxes worth of t-shirts. More than the VHS’, thankfully. His scent was attached to the collar of every one. As I carefully unfolded each shirt, I read them, smelled them and made a pile of the ones I wanted to keep. In the end, the pile was large, much larger than I could take home with me to Queens. Much more than I had room for or really needed. That evening, I decided to take home 1 t-shirt. It was royal blue and doned the logo from our favorite local pizzeria. The pizzeria where Uncle Anthony would order from; or take me to on a Saturday night, and let me drink unlimited Coca Cola when he was asked to babysit. I wore his Original Pizza t-shirt until it was threadbare; until it had holes in the armpits and stains from cooking in it every single Sunday. I held on to that t-shirt much like I would have liked to have held on to him. As I cooked alone in my apartment, I would tell him stories about my week at work. I told him that I would have done anything to see his name come up on my phone, again, during a random Wednesday 2pm meeting, but that would be impossible. After 10 years, I let go of that faded, royal blue, seemingly ordinary cotton t-shirt. Bathed in magic and memories, I said goodbye to it - but I never really said goodbye to my uncle.