Sitting here watching the snow come down in big chunks outside and thinking about where I’ve felt loved…

I always felt loved with my Uncle, no matter where we were at. Uncle Rodney was always glad to see you and it showed. He had a cool muscle car and an ever-present, slightly-guilty grin on his face that made it seem like he was having more fun than everyone else. He probably was! His girlfriend Sandy had long chestnut hair and was kind to boot.

He and Sandy would come pick me up and let me climb into the back seat, back when they let you hop in and barely waited for your butt to hit the seat before taking off, never mind the seat belt.

His face would light up when he saw you. Like he’d been waiting all day to motor up to your house. Like it was the highlight of his day.

We’d go to the park where he’d push me so high on the swings, me laughing hysterically, thinking I was going to fly right away, wondering all the while if it was possible to swing up and over, upside down. He’d be pushing so effortlessly, a cigarette hanging off the side of his smile.

Did he know how hard it was for me to get even close to that height on the swings with my own effort? The amount of leg pumping that required? Not to get to that height but to get even close? When you’re a little kid, 5 or 6 years old, it is very hard!

He had this electric car race track that had the temperament you would expect from an electronic track in the 70s. It rarely worked. When it did, it was almost meditative, watching the cars fly around the track, going nowhere but the same figure 8, over and over.

My grandmother, decades later, long after my uncle’s funeral would tell me harrowing stories about the trouble he would get into as a young child. I think that trouble-making tendency just stuck with him.

“Why didn’t she take his keys?” She still asks this question. The “she” in question is the bartender that night, the one who didn’t take his keys from him and let him leave the bar and get into his car. He wouldn’t make it home that night. They didn’t let me go to the funeral. I think I was 9 or 10 at the time. I’m planning on visiting my grandmother next week- she’s in her 90s now- and I want to talk to her about him some more. Hear some more stories about what he was like as a little kid.

I don’t think Uncle Rodney ever said “I love you” to me, but he didn’t have to. I always knew he did. I make a point to tell my loved ones that I love them, but the best relationships are the ones where you know you are loved. You feel it. And that love is unconditional. You are loved no matter what, just because you are you. That’s how I always felt with my Uncle Rodney.