They both were different, one was steady on the rutter, couldn’t rest because doing made him feel accomplished, at least that’s what I saw. My uncle Sylvaine appeared to be a good man, and wouldn’t say otherwise. In ways I should be like him, constantly working to keep things in order, because order is sanity, is conservation, is balance, but I am not like him. I have a curse. I cannot remove the inherent desire to create. I’ve interpreted this burden as a forever lasting waltz with chaos. But he did keep his life orderly and it showed. Bless his soul.
From then till now, the family members who lived no longer do. My grandfather has passed. My Uncle has passed. They passed through a continuum of endless life. They spoke to me and said we are with you and within you. Tears of understanding flowed from within. They will be missed for they have passed forever. May they return in a new body of whichever form the universe is willing to bare them. For they will not be the last to leave nor the last to return. Even though they rest in my memories I do feel consoled that they are at peace, somewhere. They both died in the year 2019. Two men who were examples of resiliency, one a war veteran, and the other an eternal husband. They both have too much to inspire in me that I will take what is there inside my reflection on the lives they lived.
Burton Brunt, my grandfather was a man who appeared to enjoy laughter. He may be the cause of the entire Brunt family needing humor to deal with mental disorder. Not that the crutch of laughter is a burden the same as creativity, but that it is worse. The jolting of the chest when under siege of a joke can be so captivating that one would not want another life. But when the laughter turns to emotional disapproval by a hurt individual leads to vicious vitriol. Stomping feet, pounding fists upon a table, arguing lips, screaming voices, swearing mouths begin to uproar and cannot be calmed unless sleep is sought, sleep is the cure. I wouldn’t have it any other way. In a reflection, as I am now, I do recall the love which lasted through my entire life, even before I was born, between him and Terry Pacelli (my grandmother). They did not divource although the odds were low in favor of such a duo to continue their relationship. So in saying this I bow to him in respect. Not even I could sustain my first relationship past a couple years to the detriment of my first born, and only born until now.
Their funerals were mournful as they should be. Both in Quebec, both in and around Montreal. Relatively the same amount of people paid respects, but I noticed the younger the man, the more the pain. Many years ago, a death by own hand, by fathers gun, had claimed the life of my cousin Chris. At 14 he did so with a too close to home angst, but he was closer, because he completed the task, and shook the earth as our family quaked, fractured, and will never forget.
Now I am shook, not shaking, just traumatized by these three men, one considered forever a child gone. So I look to the metaphysical and pray that there is more to this hellish life which giveth and taketh away our closest friends, our dearest family, and keepeth our enemies. Not always do our enemies survive, but all those who harmed me live today. May they prosper in golden baths of successes unknown to my gyspy bloodline as I revel in the soot of the tapering industrialization and cower to the scientific artificial intelligence that may actually overtake my body. Nah.