Eng 273N RD Paper #1

Kristine Asato

ENG 273N

Professor Shimabukuro

August 9, 2010
RD Paper #1

Forgetting to Remember You

I saw another person whose names I couldn’t remember, but whose face I hadn’t forgotten.  [THESIS] We were all here for the same reason, to remember.  [THESIS].  The room probably surpassed the fire codes maximum capacity, but no one was in a rush to leave anytime soon.  I knew this place well enough to drive myself. I found a place next to my brother against the wall and he handed me the program and I looked down to see my uncle’s face had grown slender from the cancer.  The only sound was the pastor’s voice marked with a recognizable bravado, similar to Martin Luther King, as he read a passage probably from the bible, or maybe he made it up.  I didn’t go to church enough to be able to tell the difference anymore.  I was probably 12 when I last saw my uncle, over a decade ago; I thought he had more time.

I almost didn’t come.  I’m not exactly sure why, maybe because I didn’t want to revisit the awareness of this reality. I had seen many family members off from here before, it almost seemed like we were regulars.  A loving father and husband, leaving his children behind, a man of God whose time had come to be with the Lord. I knew all to well the jargon that would be made to comfort the loss of this man.  17 years ago, the same monologue was made for my father.  I don’t remember my father, and I regret not remembering my Uncle. 


We are gathered here today, to remember.  It wasn’t just to remember Malcolm, that’s my uncle’s name; I realized it was to remember everyone else as well.  These people who probably haven’t seen each other in years, were all here for the same reason, and for that reason only.  It was pitiful that we became so busy we greeted old friends like mere acquaintances from a forgotten time in our life.  We had forgotten how to say hi to each other. 

I let my mind wander; I didn’t want to cry.  Someone in here must be a doctor, I wondered if his patients would come when he died.  If they did, he must’ve been a good doctor.  And the lady whose students would grow up to become successful, they’d probably be at her ceremony too.  I wondered if these people would all be at each other’s funerals when the time came.  The schedule goes, weddings, birthdays, high school reunions, holidays, and funerals.  These were the only excuses we used to keep in touch with one another.

Everyone slowly stood up, as requested by the man on the microphone.  A chord struck by a solemn guitar that rang of a church hymn and I imagined the isles filled with bibles.  The people in their black attire raised their hands as if their voice would be carried through them and up into the heaven to be heard by Malcolm.  That’s when I heard his voice, and I saw what they had displayed next to his pictures.  It was my uncles voice, as if awaken from the dead.  How eerie it must have been to hear him and know that he would never be heard as he was now.  A strong voice naïve to any cancer rang out in the speakers surrounding the crowd that had gathered.  Vaguely I remembered, the times we routinely paid a visit to God every Sunday, as my uncle led us in songs of His praise. 

The service came to an end with the traditional walk down the isle to give your condolences to the family of the deceased.  It was here I embraced my aunty who had just lost her husband, and her son, my friend who had just lost his dad. I could feel them before anyone else had a chance to see, the tears that had escaped.  A slow embrace mingled our tears as she cried for the time she spent, and I cried for the time I had lost.  She looked exactly the same, and he was all grown up. I had missed out on their lives.  And I regretted not knowing who they were anymore.   I saw a childhood friend we were neighbors until I was 15.  We had gone to the same middle school and adjacent high schools, yet I wondered how we had lost touch.  

My uncle brought people together.  In church through his songs, so I’m told, and he has done it again.  By some act of God, all these people were here to see my uncle off into an unforeseen world.  My uncle had brought us all back together.  Bridges were reestablished, phone numbers exchanged, and the affirmation that we had acknowledge each other’s existence, because one day we will cease to.   

If I could be measured, by the tears people shed for me when I died I’d hope there’d be enough to fill a cup.  I wondered about how many people I knew well enough for them to make a trip out to my funeral.  Technology has made things more accessible for everyone to keep in touch, and I was ashamed at how seldom I took advantage of the new age.  I picked up my phone, and sent a text to a friend I had forgotten in the past few months, things weren’t good on her end.  I thanked my uncle for reminding me of the people I needed to treasure, people that may need me, and that I may need someday.