I am forgetful in some ways. I forget how beautiful each season is, and I only remember once the season sprouts, thrives, wilts, or perseveres again, year after year. I am thankful for this forgetfulness.
The accumulation of years doesn't seem so bad right now. I feel like I learn a little bit more very year; Within the past year I've learned my way around a harmonica, how to bake french bread, how to pass the time when your landlady is insane and you have no money. Our avian friends become a little more known to me each year, as I struggle to label and file each of their unique songs, calls, and manners. Though understanding is permanently scarce, each year brings on more accumulation. This is a consolation.
I wish this was the case for everyone.
My Uncle is going back to prison. He was released not two years ago, and got into construction work shortly thereafter. As the need for construction work has slowed (and rightfully so), he accrued more time and less money. He sought old connections, threads to his not-too-distant lifestyle. And he started doing speed again. He was arrested two mornings ago, on the way back from an early morning (3 am) fishing trip.
I can't imagine what it's like to feel this desperate. My uncle's family was fucked before he ever had time to form. A cheat for a father and a mother too afraid to point out faults. He yearned for escape, he saw none, and he turned inward. He is no angel, and scarcely even a nice man. But I know he cried like a baby when I visited him in prison when I was eight (I offered to sneak a model car kit in for him. He was a serious auto-enthusiast, fitting for a motorhead). We talked about greek mythology the few times we talked at all; the fantastic exploits and the keenly human faults of the Olympians comforted him immensely.
It is blankly unfair that he will have to spend more time in prison for his self-inflicted wounds. I hate drugs, and I think my Uncle should have thorough and strict rehabilitation. But that won't be what happens. He will be thrown in a cage, told to behave, and forgotten.
The politicans and self-described pillars of our society would undoubtedly decry men like my Uncle. He has had children that he has not cared for, and they have followed his crooked path. His son is in prison. He is hardly friendly or admirable, but I can't help but stand by him.
The beauty of this spring throws my Uncle's imprisonment onto even greater relief. He is 62. I hope he makes it.
