I had always going to Uncle Ron's when I was a kid [You can check out a little more about him in one of my older blogs: "Long Shadow"]. He lived in and old farm house that he grew up in as a kid. Most of the property had grown back to the typical southeast Georgia landscape. He was the first African American to attend Reidsville High; the KKK decided to burn most of what they had out there: the barn was completely gone and the fence for the cattle taken up after selling of the remaining cattle. The house sustained some damage but was preserved and restored by the family over time.

I used to run through the house a peek through the old skeleton keyholes like I had seen actors do in movies. His was a world away from the projects. I could go outside and do what 3 or 4 year olds like to do, like, throw rocks. I could pick up a stick or fallen tree limb; pretend to be Lion-O and beat the shit out of tree trunks or palmetto bushes. It was the type of place that shrank in size as you got older, but the more time you spent there you'd just keep discovering things you didn't see there before.

Not only was that the case with the property, it was especially true with my Uncle Ron himself. Over time I learned more and more from him. We shared a since of humor than no one else seemed to tap into with me. And I used to love to listen to his stories. He was wise and had a kind and sound answer for every problem I ever presented. Philosophically and spiritually he had the greatest influence in my life (seconded only by the Bible). He claimed to be Muslim (and practiced as such...somewhat), but for the most part was very mystical and believed in witchcraft/voodoo (he's Jamaican).

But he was not ignorant of Christianity by any means. He held very impressive Bible knowledge (and some of the apocrypha and other pseudopigraphical texts; especially some of the Jewish Apocrypha) and always said that the Song of Solomon was his favorite book. I found all that out when I was 18. I had just found out that he was falling ill to Aids and was spending as much time with him as possible. I was sure that I would be the one to find him dead. This caused me to hold my breath during my last visit with him.

I had a heavy feeling as I walked up to the door of the house. It was very quiet even after I knocked. I let my self in after no response and stood at his bedroom door. He was rolled up in bed sheets and a quilt; even then, all bundled up he looked small. Finally he breathed and stretched. He rolled over and noticed me: "Oh, hey Nephew! A Salam A Lakim!"

"A Salam A Lakim Uncle Ron. I brought you some milk." I put the milk in the fridge and returned to catch up with him. He spoke of a new spirit that had been visiting him to keep him company. During the conversation I asked him what the little piles of grey dust were on the floor (ash, I suspected from magic or some spell). Turned out thought that it was his skin. And his once-upon-a-time-very-healthy dreadlocks were starting to break as well. I stayed with him all evening and gave him a one of my drawings.

Life picked up as graduation was drawing near and I didn't go see him again. I had already lost my father, I was uncertain as to how I was going to take losing my Uncle as well. He fell very ill right before graduation: thus I didn't send him an invitation. I hopped that he wouldn't realize the exact date and not feel bad for not being able to attend.

On the night of my graduation he stayed in my mind though, and I wandered if I had made the right decision about sending him an invitation. After the ceremony my older sister found me in the crowd on the football field and informed me that Uncle Ron had made it. She saw him from the bleachers, "He had two men helping him walk; he had his cane and was wearing a white turban. He had the men stand him at the fence; he stayed there until it came your turn to walk across stage."

"He already left then?"

"Yeah, he left as soon as you made it across stage and came back down."

I didn't see him again until his funeral several months later. I was a pallbearer: stood by his right side at his head and carried him to his grave with my right hand.