I had finally managed to drag myself into work, not easily, on a Sunday afternoon (I'd had the whole weekend but had procrastinated), and was doing some much needed catch-up with my paperwork.
And then I got a call on my cell phone, it was my mother. She told me that my uncle was gone. Where did he go, I wondered? Was he missing? No he is dead.
Died in a house fire, probably from smoke inhalation.
I never felt very close to this uncle. And yet, I started to cry.
What a horrible way to die. I just hope he never woke up. I hope he was drunk- he drank. I hope he didn't suffer. I hope he is at peace, as he really hasn't been for a long time.
Of course no more paperwork got done.
I feel like this should be telling me something, teaching me something, giving me some kind of insight. It isn't. After the initial tears, I'm surprised at how little I feel.
There is a part of me that isn't surprised that this is how it ended for him.
Maybe he is finally at peace.