Mourning Light

I do not think that I am a good writer.

That being said, I know that improvement is needed. Thus, I am writing on this blog, not necessarily for the enjoyment of others, but for my own personal gain. You might think this to be selfish, but I think of it as an outlet for self-improvement.

Today is the six year anniversary of the day my uncle committed suicide. Since then, every August 8^th has been a day of mourning in my family. Since he was my mom’s little brother, she, her sister and mother grieve the most.

I loved my uncle. As a talented musician, he was my earliest inspiration to play the guitar. When I was four, I begged my parents for a guitar. Unfortunately, my parents didn't have the money to buy a guitar for a four-year-old at the time. I was devastated. At least, as devastated as a small, barefooted blonde could be.

Then, on my thirteenth birthday, a large package came in the mail addressed to me. Once all the tape and packing peanuts where ripped off and all over the floor, the box revealed a brand new, deep red acoustic guitar. It was a thing of beauty. The ruby red finish gleamed in the florescent light of our living room. It smell of manufactured, plastic bliss. I ran my fingers over the taught strings. The sound that exuded melted my core. I was speechless. My parents, of course, knew that my uncle had saved up in order to spark my dream of becoming the next Joan Jett. They smiled, and my mom cried.

The guitar was faulty, however. The neck bowed, leaving it unplayable. When my uncle heard this, he apologized up and down, swearing he would buy me a new one.

That never happened.

It wasn’t too long after that, we received a phone call while on vacation in Arkansas. It was a beautiful morning. The sun beams shone through the blinds and you could hear the distant mourning doves nesting in the pines. But these things are not what woke me. Suddenly, I heard a scream from the downstairs. At first, I thought there was something wrong with my baby cousin, who was born with extreme disfigurements and harsh medical issues. Instead, I recognized my mother’s voice, wailing with extreme fear and agony.

She had received a call saying my Uncle Lance had committed suicide.

I remember it all very vividly. My mother, crawling into bed with me and sobbing. I was fifteen and here I was holding my own mother like she held me when I was a child.

Many people debate on what motivated my uncle to do what he did.  At first, my theory was that he was framed. Someone must have murdered him for his business and made it appeared as if he had taken his own life.

The truth of the matter is that Lance didn’t see any other way out. He had exhausted not only his options, but his heart and soul as well. I believe he felt that people would be better off without him, whether dead or alive.

However, the devil deceived him. He was loved by many and is now missed by many more. He was a good person by all means; caring, loving and considerate of other. I’ll never forget my curly haired uncle, who quietly loved him like his own.