The phone rang at just after 6 in the morning.
I remember my grandmother's voice like it was yesterday.
"Are you sure?" I asked. Twice, I think. I was confused. Stunned. Instantly heartbroken. Utterly sad.
One sentence changed my life.
It was a Friday morning. And one of my life's greatest mentors had fallen.
People always say "Time heals."
It's a cliché for comfort. An idiom to help us get through tough times.
And it's true(ish) to an extent.
I am, for the most part, grateful for time.
This year has healed, no doubt.
By Christmas, the deep wound from June was a sore throbbing scab.
Trying to regenerate. To fill a deep void.
I could tell stories now and laugh.
I could say his name without choking. I could look my cousins in the eye without wanting to sob freely – feeling deep inside the magnitude of their loss.
I could hug my Aunt without crumbling... too much.
It was a dull ache. And a warm feeling. Like he was both gone and here, all at once.
The scab scarred not long after the last frost. With Spring came peace.
Or maybe just acceptance. Possibly a little bit of both.
The hurt was encased. Not forgotten, just protected. The memories were safely vaulted.
Time was "healing" things... just like they said.
But when I started to type "p-h-i..." in the TO field of an email on Tuesday, preparing to write a note to a client, the TO field auto-populated with "Uncle Phil (Phil Diamond)".
I swallowed a lump. It burned in my stomach. My eyes welled up instantly.
Like I had just lost him yesterday.
I haven't seen his name in the TO field for 365 days.
To: Uncle Phil.
Ouch.
It used to be there once every two weeks or so. At least.
And I miss it.
I miss him actually.
His laugh (like no one else's on earth!). His wit. His advice. His opinions. His unapologetic honesty.
Always just doing the best he could with what he had. Thinking, sometimes, that it wasn't enough but, whoa, it was SO much more than enough.
I miss him.
I've peppered the last year with various coping mechanisms. Trying to find a groove in a Phil Diamond-less world and failing at it, because I don't fully accept that the world can be as great without him.
I have a sticky note on my computer:
"What would Uncle Phil do?"
I channel all those chats we had in dingy diners over half-cooked eggs and soggy toast and muster up my own lessons or advice or insights when I'm stuck.
They're like D.I.Y Frankenstein concoctions of his advice over the years – my own experiments to help me through sticky business situations.
There is an Uncle Phil pin on my purse, in the inside. I see it when I open it up. Like I'm carrying him in my pocket with me. It might be a little crazy. I'm not sure. But there is comfort in it.
When I am stuck on something, M always says "Just ask Uncle Phil. He'll know."
And he's right.
Uncle Phil will know.
Or he would have.
But I can't quite feel his answers sometimes.
It's like he's too far away.
But maybe he's doing that on purpose – he's here but just far enough away that I'm forced to kick self-doubt to the curb and trust that I'll know what to do.
He often said "If it feels good, Kimmy Kimmy, it's probably the right call."
A year without Uncle Phil has taught me a lot of things, the most salient being that a year without Uncle Phil totally, utterly, absolutely stinks.
It's pure shit.
There are no adjectives to sugarcoat it. No sweet syntax to make it sound rosy.
There have been lessons, sure. And personal growth, absolutely. And positivity abound, no doubt.
But still, I liked the world better on June 28th last year than I do today.
I'm stubborn like that.
Uncle Phil would shake his head right now and smile wryly.
He'd say something like "You know, Kimmy Kimmy, you're just like your Aunt."
I would respond cheekily: "Thank you!"
Then he'd roll his eyes and let out a resounding Ha!
Man, I miss that laugh.
I don't think that time really heals wounds, it just changes things. It reminds me that life goes on and that the sun always rises, even when the world feels dark. It provides perspective and gives space to laugh again. And I'm grateful for that. I am blessed. This life is beautiful and I am thankful that for nearly 34 years, I was blessed to have my Uncle Phil in it.
Three hundred and sixty five days ago a great man took his last breath on this sweet planet.
He made his peace. He bid farewell. He went out with dignity, and he had the last laugh.
(Thank you, Frank.)
I doubt the world will ever see another soul like his.
