My uncle F died today.
Not totally unexpected. He had a stroke a few years back and he never totally recovered.
He always had trouble moving one of his arms after that.
He had another stroke a few days ago, and they brought him to a hospital to recover.
Some time today he started bleeding internally, and even though they operated, they couldn't save him.
He was the oldest of those of my fathers siblings that are still living, (he was 66).
My father was only 56 when he died, also problems with the heart. Seems to run in that part of the family.
I haven't seen much of him for the last 15 years, ever since I moved to Stockholm.
But his wife has always been close to my mother, and I would usually meet them whenever I visited mother.
Which is normally twice a year, once during christmas and once during midsummer.
The last few years I've always felt a bit awkward about meeting him. As the years went by he more and more reminded me of my father. He had the same way of moving his hands when he spoke, he would stroke his chin like my father did and the lines in his face was the same as my fathers. It made me miss my father more.
He's been around for as long as I can remember. Still, I can't really remember anything special about him. He was just there. Like a mountain. You look out the window and the mountain is there, next day you look out the window again and the mountain is still there. The day you look out the window and the mountain is gone, well it's not something you expect to happen.
I think I will miss him most because he reminded me of the others that are gone, my father, my grandmother my other uncles.
The more of them that leave, the harder it is for me to remember them all.
Another thread to my childhood has been cut.
My cousin, F's son, said that he thought his father is sitting by a lake somewhere, fishing with his brothers.
It's a comforting thought.