my father’s younger brother was quite an interesting fellow worked over time in different jobs and on the sided wrote poems stories novels texted songs
we lived about 150 miles apart exchanged occasional mails and comments on each other’s writings
then I received an email rather strange stating that he had underestimated his sickness but wished to have no visits at the time
it seriously felt like something was not right
and two days later I was just about to call a weeping aunt was on the phone and told me of his death
from what she said it was not nice
he died of cancer of the pancreas could hardly move in his last weeks and only weighed one hundred pounds down from 200 when he died guess his demise was a relief for him as well as her
how sad that he a man of letters who wrote thick novels and articulate verse could not find words for his own pain
maybe like many of his generation he felt his sickness was a shame or he was furious at his body or his fate or did not want to burden others or did not like them to be witness to his waning health
I do not know
what I shall remember is the loud silence in his last mail