A Kind of Uncle

A Poem

To Fred.

Hey little guy. My name is Sean. I’m not quite your uncle, for I am not your father’s brother. But I am his cousin, so I guess that makes me an uncle of a kind. Perhaps I’m an uncle like Scrooge McDuck is. Not so much by blood, but by relationship. I chose to be close to you and yours when I could have not. But here I am, writing this story for you, one about having a younger sibling, a difficult one for me to tell, as I am the younger sibling of my end of the family. So it’s not like I know what it’s like.

I could tell you what it’s like to be the younger sibling. In truth, it’s rather drab. Most of the time, my brother and I talk like people who know each other. They say that there’s a special bond between siblings, that they inherently love each other no matter what. I’m here to tell you, little Freddy Frey, that’s a load of hooey. The truth is a brother, or in your case a sister, is just another person. We’re just people, you see. We hurt, we feel mad, and sad as well. But we feel happy, and cruel, and we help as well. We do these things to strangers and siblings alike.

So then, why care about your little sister? Why should my brother care about his younger brother? If, after all, we are just people, why should we care at all about our blood? About anyone at all?

Why should I care about you?

Simple: because you exist. It’s an odd thing, isn’t it: to exist. The world is such an odd place full of people who think they can be one thing, and one thing only. They can be cruel. They can be kind. They can sing. They can dance. They can think. They can do. They can dream. And that’s it. It’s terrifying, to them, to be able to do more than one thing. To exist is that ability they reject.

It’s so special to see people exist. To see a child be born, sometimes more than once. To see people dance about while singing long forgotten songs, to be cruelly kind, to think about our mad dreams.

I had a dream once. My brother and I were in the woods. Not a real wood, little Fred. It was a memory of a wood. You’ll remember them, one day. We were in the woods, walking about when we came across a little duck. Back then, my brother was deathly afraid of birds, so the sight of the duck caused him to faint. Not me though. I was saddened. The duck was dead, you see. His eyes were closed, his feathers drooping. And not a breath was felt.

Three little ducklings came by to see the duck as I held him. They wanted one more story from him, one more adventure. Alas, not all things can come true. The duck was dead.

“Quack! Quack!” replied the dead duck. He was alive and well, little Fred! He was also quite cross with me. “Quack Quack Quack!” he said, which I took to mean, “Why did you think I was dead?”

“I…” I tried to say, but the duck interrupted me.

“QUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCK.” Which I thought meant “I was just taking a nap.”

“I-I’m Sorry,” I stammered.

“Oh, not at all.” Replied the duck. “Now then, is he dead?” the duck pointed towards my brother.

“NO!” I said, not realizing I was shouting.

“Ah, a pity,” said the duck. “He seemed like a comfortable couch.”

And then I woke up. My brother was in the other room, still asleep having spent the night with his grandfather, whom you’ve met before, but don’t remember. They were working on something or other, I don’t recall. But what I do recall is that I agreed with the duck: he did look like a comfortable couch. Comfortable enough to sit on, perhaps. But then I thought, “Nah… wouldn’t be nice. Wouldn’t be nice at all.” Somedays, especially when I was young, I thought it would be funny. And… sometimes it was. But I don’t think it was ever nice.

That’s what it is to be a sibling, to live with other people for long stretches of time: you care for them, certainly. But you also have to deal with them when they’re crabby and thinking that comedy trumps niceness. And you have to deal with your own considerations of comedy and niceness. For there are times, little Fred, when one trumps the other. I don’t know. It was five in the morning when I wrote this poem for you. I don’t want it to be as dead as a duck.