Life and Death and Life

My Great Uncle Myron Reis died this morning at about 3am.  He was both Great in the technical terminology of our relationship, being my maternal grandmother’s brother (accordingly I am termed a Grand Nephew), and he was Great as in fantastic, wondrous and eminent in my life.   My maternal grandfather died when I was three and Uncle Mike didn’t just fill the void, he more than overstuffed it with an unwavering positivity, intelligence, warmth and guidance, generosity and care. It has always been easy to start a statement with, “My Great Uncle Mike” and let the description straddle both purposes.

He nearly died six years ago and we all held our breath, but in the ensuing years he reminded us, by example, that life isn’t just to be treasured, it actually makes us richer the more we share it.  As he physically weakened and his world compressed he continued to expand himself by quietly sustaining the details: holding my Great Aunt Jane’s hand or stealing a kiss, watching deer prance through their upstate backyard, explaining the history of a restaurant, a play, a writer, an actor, a singer, a building, a town, a religion, all of New York City or even the world to come according to the New York Times’ Tuesday’s technology reviews…  He tired physically, but his unquenchable thirst for knowledge and happiness never abated.   Even at his most fatigued, he was always capable of a vibrant hug.  In short, he beamed life.

His last few weeks were rough and it’s easy to hold focus on what happened in the hospital, what didn’t happen in his recovery, what decisions would, should, or could have been made if the outcome was apparent from the forefront.  But in reality, as I learned it from Uncle Mike, none of that matters. 

All books have their last page.  All movies have a final credit.  All songs a last beat.  Even the brightest stars expire with a final burning ember.  Mike knew this, and he would be remiss if we concentrated on his final moments and forgot all the lessons learned in the preceding chapters of his life.  Lessons about craft and quality, personal fulfillment, the purpose of determination, and the meaning of success.  Piano lessons.  Writing lessons.  Art lessons.  Lessons about love.

Jane and the rest of us will ultimately move forward—Mike would insist upon this—but our current pause is assuredly accepted and appreciated.  It is entirely fair for us to fully miss this Great man and we will grieve for the loss of his future advice, the future enjoyment of meals, hospitality and rich conversation.  And, for certain, future stolen kisses.

I love you, my Great Uncle Mike.