Little Pat
November 19, 2023
Dearest Solomon,
“Greg, give me a call it’s important” the text from your Uncle Pat read — it was 9:59 am and I had just woken up. Nervous, I called back. My stomach crawled into my throat — I knew this kind of message was never good.
As Pat picked up, he told me your Uncle Dave was on the line too. I would have sworn they were about to tell me that our other brother had passed away. But they didn’t.
Today, your cousin Pat, Little Pat, as we always knew him, passed away. He is Pat’s oldest son. I wasn’t expecting or prepared to hear that. I couldn’t believe it — I still can’t believe it, to be honest. I’ve found myself in tears on and off throughout the day. The emotions are complicated.
But first, let me tell you about Pat. It was always one of the more amusing things in my life that at the ripe age of 6, I became an uncle to Sabrina, Pat and Debbie’s daughter. In 1982, Pat was born, making me an uncle two times over. I was just 7.
When you’re 7, a newborn is like a lifetime younger than you. But now, at 48 going on 49, my nephew has left us and those 7 years seem folded back on time. He’s my peer, I’m an older brother’s age apart, not a sage with a lifetime of experience between us.
All day, I go back to the oldest memories I have of Pat, running around the house, jumping on the bed, and laughing. His sweet little face is all I can remember — except when I inadvertently transpose yours in place of his.
I feel so many things today, too many things, it’s overwhelming. I keep trying to sort them out and they’re all overlapped and intertwined. Perhaps the hardest part is the huge mirror I find myself standing in front of and the harsh light it casts.
As a father, I feel anguish for my brother. I’ve only heard him like this once before. — the day he ran to me to tell me Pops had passed. But today was lower, more guttural. Perhaps my ears are different, now being a father myself and confronted by my greatest fear — to lose my child. But the pain is real and bewildering.
As an uncle, I feel I failed my nephew. Too much time had passed, I hadn’t seen Pat in probably a decade or more. I don't know if there was something I could have done to help, some love I could have shown, or some advice I could have given. Everyone has their own path, but also get the gift of those on the journey with us. Try to be a gift.
As a peer, looking at Pat as myself, I see how many people he connected with and impacted in his own life. I also see his struggles and suffering. As the memories and sentiments show up on his timeline, I am getting a new picture of my nephew. I’ve often wondered what it would look like when I passed, and here before my eyes is what that may be.
Not long ago, I mused in my morbid mind that I hoped my friends could be there for my funeral. Naturally, it was with hopes that our time together meant something, but also I hoped that my family would get to see me through their eyes —not as all the things I wasn’t, but all the things I was.
I’m sad, even ashamed, I’m not a friend to so many in my own family — to Pat and many, many more.
When we got home, you were busy with your grandparents. We didn’t say anything, I wasn’t sure how or what to say about it. Instead, I retreated downstairs to lay in the dark. A couple of hours later, I came back up to see what was going on. You were outside playing basketball in maybe the last warm day for the year. Your goal was to make 700 points.
Your mom called you over to give me a hug. I broke out in tears. I think it was the first time you have seen me cry, but I’m not sure. I could tell you didn’t know what was going on — we still haven’t told you.
I had to go back inside.
They say that having to bury your child is the most devastating kind of pain. Being even this close is unbearable.
I pray none of us ever have to live through this again. I pray you never have to experience this. I pray for Big Pat, Little Pat, his kids, and everyone in our family right now.
Rest in peace, Little Pat. Rest in power.
Love Always,
Dad
