IT DOESN’T MATTER HOW OLD

My father’s brother passed away last night. He would have been 95 in another month. He had a good long life by any standard, for which I credit our Swedish genes. I hope my dad is around as long. He’s the youngest of his siblings.

There was Uncle Kenneth, the eldest, who had health problems his siblings did not share and died many years ago. Then Uncle Jerry, who recently left us. My Aunt Barbara is 92 or 93, and is still active and mentally sharp. As is my dad, who will be 86 in February.

Uncle Jerry’s death was not unexpected. His wife, Freda, died about a year ago, and he has been slowly failing since — something that can happen after such a loss.

I note a sadness in my father’s voice, the last few times I’ve talked him — about his brother Jerry’s passing, preparing something to be read at the service. It’s not the same as the grief he expressed when my mother died almost eight years ago. Different…

Not the loss of a loved one, a life mate, with potential for more time.

But the end of an era. Like when the last of your parents die. Then your siblings or cousins begin to leave, one by one. Mortality looms.

Again, my dad is the youngest in his immediate family. My first cousins on his side are all older than me, by at least eight years. I am the eldest in our brood. Will we go in order, as his siblings have? Or will I too have to endure the loss of my siblings?

I’m pondering how that will feel, the sadness of my family disappearing. And understanding my dad’s sadness, despite their ages.

I’m trying to believe that even as we get close to that time, we find some joy in the youngsters who will outlive us and carry on. Our children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.

My Uncle Jerry was a bright spot in my life. I saw him often as a child; he was fun-loving, kid-loving, funny and generous with his time. And even as I grew into a teen and adult, although I visited less often. His eyes lit up every time he saw me and he always made me feel special. “Niecy Denisy,” he and Aunt Freda always called me. He loved big band music and jazz, played the trombone and sang. I can still hear him singing, “Yanuary, February, Yune and Yuly,” in his mock Swedish accent — and sense his delight that this always made me giggle.

I hadn’t seen him in more than six years, not since we moved from California. So often, life gets in the way of making time for those early and heartfelt connection.

Nothing more to say except rest in peace, my dear Uncle Jerry. You live on in my heart.