I don’t believe in a lot of things. I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in second chances – despite how many times I’ve given them. And I don’t believe in true love, unless true love is the way my heart clenches at the sight of an 8 o’clock sunset in the middle of July. However, I do believe things happen for a reason.
This past February marked the nine-year anniversary of my uncle’s passing. I still remember the day he died, the services we had for him, and his funeral much too clearly. It’s unfortunate that those are the memories I can’t seem to forget. It’s unfortunate that when I try to remember him as a person, I can only distinctly remember one thing – the grapefruit.
He had a grapefruit tree that he tended in my grandma’s backyard. I don’t remember much about her yard except that when my cousins and I would go out to play, it felt like a jungle. The grapefruit tree wasn’t the only fruit tree he grew, and it was nothing remarkable, aside from the fact that it bore fruit. One day, he noticed that the grapefruits looked big enough to pick. So he called my cousin and me outside and used a fruit picker to remove the biggest grapefruit he could find. My cousin and I fought over who would carry it into the house. We rushed to the kitchen sink to wash it. My uncle grabbed a knife and we watched as he cut through the peel, revealing the bright pink flesh inside. He sliced it in half and then in thirds, handing us each a wedge of the fruit. He warned us it would be tart, and offered us sugar to pour on top, but both my cousin and I declined, wanting to experience the actual fruit. To this day, I still remember just how bitter and disgusting it tasted. And to this day, grapefruit is still my absolute favorite taste, scent, and memory.
My uncle had a heart the size of the moon. He was the most compassionate person I’ve ever known. He was also the most reserved. He wasn’t big on socializing, and was commonly absent during family dinners and birthday parties. He was great with his hands; he could fix, grow, or build anything. When they cleaned out my uncle’s room after he passed, my dad and older cousin came out, arms filled with small wooden jewelry boxes. There were 10, one for each of his children, grandchildren, nieces, sisters, and his mother. He had built them by hand, and upon opening them, we saw that each box contained one of our names written on a small piece of notebook paper. I still have my little brown box and the square of paper with my name on it.
My uncle was gone for seven years before I found out why he died. At the time of his death I was nine, and my parents simply told me he was injured at work, he never got better, and one day the pain was too much. That was it. Hearing that was like a kick in the face. At nine years old, I became convinced that life was unfair. But in 2014, my great-grandmother passed away. I was talking about life and death with my dad while visiting her in the hospital before she died, and my uncle came up in our conversation. That’s when my dad revealed the real cause of his death – Hepatitis C. He had injected drugs with a dirty needle, and the infection ultimately killed him. It made sense then, why he died, though it was hard to wrap my head around. I always thought drug addicts lied, cheated, and stole to get high. But my uncle was nothing like that. Everyone in our family, even those who knew his secret, trusted him and knew he was incredibly selfless. Even after finding out why he passed, my opinion of him remained  unchanged. I hope that if he were still alive, I’d be able to say the same.
Since my uncle’s death, my family honors his life by gathering on Super Bowl Sunday to make lunches for the homeless. We pack 50 bags with a sandwich, fruit, chips, water, a Snickers bar (his favorite candy), small hygiene supplies, and a dollar bill. On the front of each bag, we place a sticker that says, “You can never do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late. Thinking of you, E.R.”
And to this day, I still am thinking of you, Uncle E. – of you and your grapefruit. F