It’s the little things you end up missing most. Of course you expect to miss the bunny like toothy grin, his impish look, the endearing chatter with his beloved dogs. But you can’t ever know that you will miss that familiar congested cough, signs of him being around. The WhatsApp forwards, the same joke on every chat group. Those nights spent staring at the ceiling girders while the whole house, with the open roof structure, echoed his gorilla snoring - even his snoring was imposing. The house with its open roof structure was among his most favourite places in the world. Where you’d hear his hissing laughter most. He wasn’t terribly merry. A planner, a worrier, a provider. In that house he was the merriest you’d find him. His humblest.
There was always a list of things to do, things someone else could do for him. Some are born to lead and some are born to follow, he’d say. Despite his impoverished childhood and humble beginnings, he paved his own way to success. He got used to commanding eager followers to fill out his lists. Once worked down, the list would exasperatingly fill itself back up with new things to do. He had Pandoras list, and you just couldn’t tell that you were going to miss them too. The way he rubbed his palms and threw his head back when he laughed, sure. But the lists? Turns out, them too.
Being a handyman was probably a skill he’d have loved to have, but really didn’t. Mostly he made up for it with a sticking fetish. He stuck everything back together. It was his dearest hobby, the hardened drip tracks of glue formed a kind of art. We're sure Araldite’s shares went up because of his craze for their epoxy resin and hardener mix. It was the only thing he splurged on. He stuck back the soles on 8 year old sneakers, stretching them on for another 2 with yellow Araldite streaks making for a new look. An originally ugly, and now smashed ceramic vase got a complete artistic makeover. My uncle even joked that he could fix broken marriages with his faith in Araldite.
Sometimes he was a good listener, surprisingly. Especially when it really mattered. And he somehow knew when it really mattered. He always surprised me when he listened. An old school authoritarian and a quiet listener. Freely offering sound reason and logical advice. Resist the advice, only to know with time that he was right. The principles he followed were simple. “There is no easy money”, “Hard work has never killed anyone”. “It doesn’t matter what happens to you, it’s how you take what happens to you that matters”. His beliefs were annoyingly repetitive and consistent. “Run with race horses,” he’d say.
The thing he said least and always lived, was that a family sticks together. Like in a pack, the stronger look out for the weaker. No one gets left back. You never, never give up on anyone in the pack. And he never did.
It's the little things you miss most, that you can no longer touch and hear. What lives on, strong and everlasting, is the legend we're left with.
Run with race horses our dear Dada, until we join your herd, your pack again.
