Great Uncle Gary was always a mystery. I never really knew him like I knew the rest of my family. He always showed up hours late to family functions, wouldn't really talk much and gave odd gifts. I had heard about the brotherly feud between my grandfather and him from their childhood, something about my grandpa getting more attention than him, but I never really thought about why he still came to family events if he truly hated my grandfather.

 Great Grandma, my grandpa and Uncle Gary’s mother, on the other hand was always the first person to show up to my grandmother's house. She handmade cards made out of stamps, stickers and sketches. She wore unique clothing and was never anything but happy. My mother later told me that the only reason Uncle Gary showed up was because of my great grandmother. I don't remember feeling sad about it, he never really put in an effort to talk to me, never mind show me any kind of affection in the first place. When my great grandmother got sick, he started slowly disappearing from all of our lives, never showing up, never reaching out, never caring. 

When the day came, the day my great grandmother died, he disappeared. I don’t even remember if he showed up to the funeral. Nobody knew what had happened to him, no matter how many times we called, he never answered. 

Three years went by and we found out he had been living in my great grandmother's house, alone, filled with trash and cigarette smoke, graffiti on the dusty garage door. Uncle Gary still never came to see us. I felt as if nobody mattered to him, it was only himself that mattered. Time went by still and no calls, no texts, no letters or cards came. I was starting to forget that he was even a part of the family in the first place, until my grandmother called. She told my mother that Uncle Gary’s house had burned down, when I asked why, my mother told me that he hadn't put out a cigarette fully and it fell onto the carpet, burning down my great grandmother's house. I couldn’t understand how he could cut everyone off and then burn down the house she had left him. 

How could he be so careless? 

My grandmother let him stay with her and my grandpa, even after all the years he actively ignored them. He stayed in one of the spare bedrooms, my mothers old bedroom. I didn't go to see him, neither did my mother, father or brother, after all he felt like a stranger now. Even though I didn't visit him, or talk to him and didn't know how it would go if I went, I still somehow felt that he could have cared less if I did. Maybe he would acknowledge me, say hello, or maybe he would have stared at me and showed a half hearted smile before turning away. 

He stayed at my grandparents house for a week before finding a motel to stay in. I had heard he wasn’t too well off in his financial situation after paying for insulin, cigarettes and now the motel room. He, once again, did not contact anyone after moving into the motel. Years went by, as they did before, with no contact with him, until November came. 

Driving to the grocery store, my mother matter of factly blurted out;

 “Uncle Gary died.” 

I looked at her with a strange look on my face,

 “What?” I said, even though I heard her clearly. 

“They found him in his motel room a couple days ago. He hadn’t gone down to the front desk to pay for the room. The owners were friendly with him, so they went to check on him, and found him there.”

“Oh.” 

That's all I had to say, what was I supposed to do, break down and cry over a man who was merely a stranger to me? Tell my mom that I was sorry for her, even though I knew she felt the same as me? 

I decided to ask the question that was really on my mind. 

“How did he die?” 

“They don't really know. Grandma and Pa didnt want to get an autopsy for him.” 

I couldn't blame them, after the way he had so coolly discarded us once again, even after they took him in when he needed it. 

I found out later that the owners had told my grandparents he looked pale and sickly the last time they saw him. I tried to piece together my own story as to what happened to him. I settled on that he had COVID, didn't have enough money for insulin, mixed with his habit of heavy smoking that ultimately was too much for him. I didn't know how to feel or how I should feel or what I felt. It felt as if life was the same, but without the question of where Uncle Gary was. I felt guilty not being upset over his death, but how could I be upset, I didn't even know what he looked like anymore. 

My grandparents decided to cremate him and bury him next to my great grandmother. There was no funeral, no celebration of life, no comforting one another. He was not mentioned at the next family gathering, nobody cried. In a sense I felt bad for him, nobody was crying that he was gone, nobody was sitting at his grave, and nobody even truly knew even how he died. 

I still think about his mystery sometimes and how this story could have been different if maybe he stayed and at the very least tried to be in the family.

I wonder if he would have had a funeral if he hadn't left. 

I wonder if he would have tried harder if he had a better relationship with his brother.

I wonder if maybe just maybe he would have shown us that he cared, even a little.