My Uncle

I have an uncle who lives in Canada and who's pretty cool. We talked every now and then and we both make each other laugh with the things we say; a very funny character that uncle of mine. But he's not doing any good.

He has arthritis and his life is pain. Day in, day out; morning afternoon and evening; he goes to bed in pain and wakes up the same way. He's in pain when he dreams killing dragons with a shining armor and a big sword; he's also in pain when those monster come chasing him down while he sun baths on the deck of a space ship. Before taking his doses of pain killers, he's in pain; after taking them, he's still in pain. He almost never tells me about it, but I Know it.
And it hurts me.

He had been in South America for the last two months visiting my parents, chilling and drinking wine with them, while trying to escape Montreal's winter. He brought with him a ton of medications, a bottle of sun screen lotion and a couple of presents. He also brought a book that he was reading but lost it in the airplane, maybe it just felt off and he couldn't lean to see under the chair to pick it up. He got another one down there, not a big deal.

He's my Dad's older brother, pushing mid-70s and might not be there to cut the cake for his eightieth birthday. He's not doing good and he knows it; he knows what's going on and what is going to happen -or keep happening- to his fragile bones. Once a very funny guy full of energy and a great dancer, he's turning into something that people try to avoid. To take care of him on regular basis and to help him walk, or go to the doctor, or with the remote control or with that book up there in the shelve that he can't reach, is hard. And sad.

He's going back to Canada today, he might be flying as I type this lines actually, and I know that he's not seeing South America nor my parents no more.