I wonder if I can tether to me, the snapshots of mannerisms I see bend the corners of my uncles grin. He is still who I remember as child. A man who was meant to speak. His candor stuck with strong precision, and his cadence billed a gentle, punchy velvet tone. He reminded me of a 1970’s talk show host, but with a more playful poise and pacifying certainty. As one of my mother’s older cousins, I’m guessing the 70’s was his coming of age. Perhaps the 70’s were never meant to leave him. Like how Ryan Coogler’s Oakland dialect bellows within his voice. Maybe he was meant to hold the past with his voice and carry it to me. The mark of the 1970s is buried within the foreheads of my elders, and I watched them unknowingly serve me blessings.
My other uncle, my mother’s younger brother, has a childhood photo from right before the 80’s era. He wears a collared burgundy shirt and the whole photo shines with a clay tint.
We’re so far from that world, but pieces of it I carry with me. Pieces I hear from time to time, and see on holidays, funerals, and more funerals. Pieces I’ll one day say goodbye to and hold on the back of my tongue until I can release them through whispers that echo around next generations.
I know my mother loves her uncles, and they’re almost all gone now.