Early Sunday morning, the world dimmed a bit. It became a touch quieter, a little less celebratory, and forever changed for those who knew and loved my Uncle Felix.
He lost his battle with cancer yesterday.
But even that sounds wrong- saying it was a battle- because it wasn’t. It was an ambush. An unprovoked hostile attack against a brave man who said, You know what? Forget* you, cancer, I’m not going to spend what time I have left hooked up to tubes and machines, I’m going to South Beach.
(*I doubt he said “forget.” He was exceedingly Italian.)
But this isn’t a maudlin post for Uncle Fe- not only because he’d hate that a ridiculous amount (and because I already did that here)- but because it doesn’t do him justice to dwell on the sadness. Because he was the opposite of that, he brought the happy: Hat boxes full of antique jewelry for us to play dress up. Trays of Armenian meat pies large enough to feed the actual country of Armenia. Stuffed animals the size of my little sisters- when they were eight years old.
We had dinner together in Miami when I was seven weeks pregnant with Nora…and sicker than a dog. But there was this extravagantly fun restaurant he wanted to take us all to. We wouldn’t want to miss it, he said. And boy- was he right. Every single dish was a whimsical creation, and every drink was almost too wild to pick up with your hands. My Caesar salad came with a Parmesan grater big enough for a dollhouse- just because. Someone else’s dish featured an actual drawbridge, and a third gave the illusion of being an active volcano. And the whole time my Uncle Felix gestured at this dish, demanded to know what that one was, and made damn sure that we were experiencing the heck outta the joint.
He thought my father was terrific. He viewed my mother as sublime. But us? Oh, the four Flynn girls were the icing on the [nine-layer] cake. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for us, and no occasion too small to warrant an all-out party. You know that scene at the end of A Christmas Carol? The one where Scrooge just keeps bringing in toys and presents and a goose to the Crachit family? Well, substitute Scrooge for Uncle Felix’s Father Christmas, and substitute a goose for…wait, you know what? If I had mentioned that analogy to him prior to his illness, he would have shown up at the next gathering with a Christmas goose just for laughs and delicious eats. YES HE WOULD’VE.
My pal Kat, Me as Bride, and the always ready-to-party Uncle Fe…holding what
looks to be a gazillion frilly toothpicks. (He was most likely attempting to get me to eat.)
Felix Petrarca left a larger-than-life hole in our hearts and is simply an impossible act to follow as a family member, friend, and incredible human being.
I will miss him every day.
I will mourn the fact that Jasper never met him, and that the girls will only remember him in stories (of epic proportions).
And I will see him in every handlebar mustache (which he rocked for the majority of my life), oversized stuffed animal, and half-birthday celebration I come across for the rest of my life.
Yesterday morning, I cried.
But last night? We decided to celebrate with gigantic milkshakes from our favorite diner. “Here’s to you, Uncle Fe,” we toasted. I know he would’ve approved. But actually, I can almost hear his reaction.
“Only one apiece?”
We love you, Uncle Felix. We’ll take it from here.
Speak Your Mind