I WAS never angry, just confused, devastated. Perhaps even felt a little abandoned by the one thing I took for granted. It was just another day; I did not think at any rate that I would be going through what I am right now. You see, my closest uncle Bob has died. What makes it worse is how he left us.

He shot himself.

They have found him dead on his bed in his little house, after he didn’t show up at work when he was supposed to. He lived alone. He wasn’t very old, but he was much older than my father.

I always considered him to be like the big brother, or sometimes even the grandpa, I never had.

He worked in some car workshop. He was a mechanic; I never understood what he exactly did tough it seemed quite interesting. His boss, Mr. Engelton, called our house, as they did not know whom else to call. We were his only family. Well, at least the only ones he considered family. It was good that Dad was off duty that day as it would have been a very difficult encounter for Mom. Mom is kind of emotionally fragile, she breaks into deep sobs pretty easily.

So it was Dad who went to check up on him. Attempts to reach him on the phone failed miserably, the phone rang and rang with no answer. The only neighbour we knew near my uncle’s did not have a phone.

When I got back from school that afternoon, I knew something terrible has happened from the moment I stepped out of the school bus. I guess it was just what they call intuition. But I had an uneasy, gut feeling which made me unusually grumpy. It was a dark, gloomy Monday, so bitterly cold.

I have never felt so sad... so... alone!

I remember so little about him, but the few memories are worth more than the world to me. I used to call him Uncle Monkey; he taught me how to climb trees.

He was always playful and ready to go on an adventure. Once I was out in our yard - which is huge - playing freeze tag with my little brother and a couple of his buddies. I never liked Andy’s friends, they were resentful to me, for some reason. I found them to be a little too stupid too.

Uncle Monkey could see I was getting bored. So he came out and played with us! Trying to make me laugh and make it more fun for me. And it did. Having him around has always brought me more joy. At first Andy and his two friends were reluctant to have my uncle playing with us, but I didn’t care. And anyhow, soon after, they were also having more fun than before.

We all had a splendid time.

I can still see him hopping around the yard in his rough, faded overalls, barefoot, his thin, cotton strands of hair bouncing along. That image will never leave my mind. It was a fine spring day.

Uncle Monkey never failed me. Always came to my rescue, always managed to draw a smile back on my face. Now, I don’t have anyone to do that for me.

Every summer, Mom and her old collage friends go on a camping trip out in the woods by the river. They would bring their families along, sons and daughters and sometimes husbands. Few years ago, Uncle Monkey came along on our trip as Dad never liked going much. He preferred his camping calm, quiet and secluded. My uncle bought himself a cracked-up used Kayak to ride the rapids on with me. But I never did! His actions and behavior were a source of amusement to me; there was something unique about his character, an unexpected, care-free attitude.

He took it out for a quick test as soon as we set camp. He couldn’t persway me to join in, which I now regret. Half an hour later he came back wading through the water, laughing himself silly and dragging the kayak behind him as it was sinking lower and lower. Through his short journey in the shallow waters, he filled his green, quirky kayak with interesting rocks and brought too many back! Some even tucked in his Khakis pockets. God only knows how he managed that.

That was also the last time he took that kayak out. It rests in peace somewhere in that riverbed. Since he died, I have thought of going back to that river and recover it but something kept me from it. The wounds are too young. Maybe one day I will.

My only other distinctive memory of him was when he was taking a walk with me through a path at our new campsite the next morning. He snuck into my little tent and woke m up. It was dawn. The sun was still making its way up from behind the hills. Its rays were barely touching the tips of the trees. We ventured further than we planned and met an old shack. Being his curious, adventurous self, Uncle Monkey had to explore it. I, however, was not keen on such an idea; looking back at it I guess I simply wasn’t adventurous enough. So I went to sit and wait at a nearby water hole.

Uncle’s dog, Maggy, came to sit with me. It was a quiet summer morning, with spicy sunrays and a strong smell of fresh grass lingering in the still air. About a quarter of an hour later, I got pushed so suddenly into the water, my clothes getting soaked wet, and Maggy was growling at something behind me.

The water was lukewarm and once I managed to pull my self out of it, there was Uncle Monkey, one hand over his belly and pointing at me with the other, laughing so hard that his eyes watered and his laugh echoed through the woods all the way up to the mountains.

For the first little moment I was upset because I was all wet, and I has always disliked the idea of being pushed into water at an inattentive instant, and I hated the feeling of wet fabric stuck on my like second skin, but when I saw him standing there, so radiant with laughter, so happy and gay, I felt great ease and comfort within my heart. He was just like a kid. Even more a kid than I was.

I will never forget him, I somehow, don't feel like he’s totally gone.

He shot himself.

He died just days before my twelfth birthday. I was hoping I would celebrate that day with him over that tree of ours we always hanged at. When I learned about his death, I felt something reaching into my chest, grabbing my heart and squeezing and pulling it out. I have never had this feeling. It was a very unpleasant and wretched feeling indeed.

I climbed our tree and stayed there almost all day for my birthday. I sat over the top and tried to remember all the things we did. It was painful. Being so close to someone you love. It hurts so much when they go away. It hurts even more to know that it was their choice to leave. Why did Uncle Monkey leave me? Why did he take himself away from me? I needed him and I need him always.

He shot himself!

I’ve never felt like a normal kid. I mean yes of course I am and I would have the fun kids always have but when it comes to the little things of life I had a different prospective. I reckon I am just a little overgrown in that particular aspect.

I sometimes ask myself if other kids, other girls like me, would think as such? I don’t think so.

“You are a special little one, Faith,” He once told me. “You are rare,”

Uncle Monkey was a fun guy. Once he came over and yodeled in this tree with me because I was bored. It was a family reunion at our big farmhouse and nobody could figure out who was doing what. They were all busy chattering at the front porch and the two of us sneaked silently from the crowd.

“Wanna know a big secret?” he whispered to me, his raspy, calm voice always mystic and mysterious. I nodded in absolute excitement.

“You’ll love this,” he added as he took my hand, and I knew I would.

He led me to a big pine tree some distance off our house fence, which he, despite his age, jumped with ease. It was another fine and beautiful day; blue sky full of white fluffy clouds and bright warm sun with a cool soft breeze blowing from the east . Just perfect.

“Watch and learn.” He said to me, looking at the tree with challenging eyes. He began climbing, putting first his right hand over a small, lumpy bit, then the other over the trunk and then started stepping over it with the tips of his toes. As he went along, he used little branches and whatever gaps or lumps he could find till he reached the top.

From that moment on, my life has never been the same.

When he climbed down, he placed his hands over my shoulders and knelt down, looking at me straight in the eyes. I have never seen his eyes as clear and honest and pure as that particular moment.

“Now, you know.”

“Know what?” I asked clumsily. “Know about this. About the Tree of Life,” he explained “Your tree of life.”

I couldn’t really understand what he was trying to tell me but he ensured me that in time, very soon, I will understand. Now I do. He said something I will never forget that day as long as I lived: With the tree of life, we will never be alone.

The tree house. Always the tree house. Will remind me of him. Of me. Of life. My life.

It was two years ago when we built it.

As we began work on it Uncle Monkey fell off but he was not hurt. He said he could not get hurt. Never from a tree fall, he’d say. But Mom was very upset and anxious, she worried that I might get hurt. So she ordered us to stop working on the tree house, taking away uncle’s tools and hiding them in the den. But that didn’t stop us.

Only moments later we went in the woods with his tools again. We sneaked out of the house and stole the toolbox. It was like one of those military missions you see in cheap action movies.

With Uncle Monkey, everything was an adventure. I wanted to build a tepee next to the tree when I realized this was going to be dangerous, hard work but uncle insisted that we build the tree house.

“Who needs a tepee anyway? Tepees are temporary, not strong enough. We need a house to live in.” He said to me, as he smiled and rubbed his hand over my head.

It was our own summer project. All summer we spent up that tree putting on plywood’s and hammering needles. My wonderful uncle did most of the difficult work. All I had to do was make sure he got whatever tool he needed and decorate the house after it’s been completed.

It was a fine summer. It is really big, the house. And it is still my one and only hide-out. Yes, I still go up there but only when I am mad at Mom or have had a bad day. Mom never knew that we had actually built the house. It’s become my secret spot. I could be all alone for as long as I wanted in that tree house, up there on the tree of my life. I could be what I am.

That tree is not a big one. It’s just a normal tree, nothing special about it. It would not draw anyone’s attention. But I guess Uncle Monkey saw in it what no one else could see and he wanted to share that with me. It wasn’t at all like the fat tree we had in our backyard.

There was this powerful storm and it was struck by lightening. It was split down. Before even the storm ended, uncle and I were already out trying to climb it. We climbed up through the fallen trunk and down the branches. It was so much fun. The raindrops soaked us as we held onto the wet body of the tree. Of course Mom was upset about all of that. But who cared. Certinaly we didn’t.

Uncle Monkey spent most of his time in our house. H his own was a place where he would isolate himself from the rest of the world. We rarely visited him there. He would always be the one to visit us. I always wanted to know how his room was like. Uncle always teased me about it.

“If you find your way around it, you can take whatever you like from it.” He told me, sitting on the porch on a lazy summer day as the last of the sun light slashed the bottom lines of the sky. I took that as a new challenge.

The same night, I went up to his house, and managed to find me a way through the roof. I climbed the top of one tree and jump on to a bigger tree and then onto the roof, there I saw a window that lead straight to his room. It was filled with remarkable things; things such as beautiful stones and colorful rocks, leaves of unknown trees and broken twigs and little branches. They were all arranged neatly over the wall or on the desk. It was like a natural museum. But yet was so warm and so familiar, unlike a real museum. At least that is how I felt in it.

Other things were scattered across. There was an old clock with bizarre cryptic writings. Snow balls. Many old things. One thing caught my eyes. A green stone he kept in a little glass box. It was glowing in the dark. It was beautiful, the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Memories. Will I still have them when I am old and dying? After I become a full grown woman, with my own life to lead and my own family to feed? Will I still have these memories? Will I still have this tree? Will I still have Uncle Monkey?

I hope so.

I pray so.

I want so.

Today, after almost two months from the ominous, tragic day he left us, left me, we gather once again at our farmhouse. Uncles, nieces, cousins, nephews, they are all here. Yet another traditional family reunion, the ones me and uncle used to sneak away from. The first since they lost Bob, and I Uncle Monkey.

As I got weary of the loud chattering and side conversations, I felt a need to get away. I walked about the farm, Maggy strutting by my side. I was allowed to keep her. She had no where else to go. And it seemed then the right thing to do. It was. I cherished her company and in her eyes and the way she moved I saw my uncle. I felt that the two of us had a lot in common, we understood each other, we both lost the closest person to us.

Our farm was quite big. Dad kept some hogs and lots of poultry, I didn’t like chickens much. He also grew all different sorts of vegetables and things. All by myself, I roamed aimlessly, pretending that he was there by my side, holding my hand and guiding me through the thick tall grass to the stream down the meadow.

I imagined him, in his usual blue overalls, his wide-chinned face, his soft pink lips, with eyes longing for a new adventure.

He would throw sharp gazes at the rocks beside the stream, at the green hill at the yonder, or at the tree beside the flowerbed. To him, these were potential adventure sources. Places for him to discover and explore, to learn from, in a way to touch nature, to feel its soul.

From him I learned to love and appreciate my surroundings. I am a farm girl. And I will always be a farm girl. With the grace of nature, I will succumb to my own wants from life.

There was a frog - a green frog, with little yellow dots over its back. It had to be from the stream. I always loved frogs, to the extent of liking to call myself Frogirly. I find them to be very colorful, amusing creatures. I have used to keep little ones in my room in a shoebox under my bed, but Mom found that box one day and was very disturbed. Well actually, it was when she found one of my frogies swimming tastefully in her soup that she ordered no more frogs in the house.

I was only glad that the frog did not get hurt, or worse... eaten!

I lay on the grass, my hands under my chin, staring at this frog. Maggy lay next to me, her dull, sad eyes speaking of her loneliness and loss. The frog’s eyes were black and glittering. It did not make a sound, just breathed and stared back at me. When I reached my hand to it, it jumped back into the stream, probably scared from the dog more than me. As it splashed against the shallow water, I felt sprinkles of it landing on my cheeks, it tickled me and I smiled.

Uncle Monkey. Gone. Forever.

He shot himself.

But then I remembered what he told me. I remembered his words. I will always remember. Suddenly I realized, that even though his death did not make any sense to me at all, it meant something in the circle of things. Perhaps I will never be able to accept it and forgive him for what he did. He had no right to deprive me of his joyous company.

I am a special little one, I am rare. I know that. I am aware of that now more than ever.

It was he the reason behind me being who I am now. And who I will always be. It was he the reason behind me being hyper, direct... and even rude! In a cute way that is. I don’t care what other people really think of me, I live for the moment: I never live for tomorrow because you never know when it won’t come. That it how Uncle Monkey lived, I felt.

Andy.

My littler bother, Andy. We drifted so far apart in the past months. We have stopped playing with each other, talked very little. It is my fault.

I walked back to the congregation. Few faint laughs are heard. Smiles are exchanged through lost gazes. It is on the mend. Our wounds. My wound.

I saw Andy sitting alone at the picnic table, sipping ice-tea from a paper cup. My mother, keeping company with some relatives, looked at me and drew a wide smile on her face. She waved, I waved back.

I stood behind Andy and leaned towards him and whispered softly and playfully into his ear: “Wanna know a big secret?” He turned to me at hearing this and nodded, with anxious looks, yes.

I held his hand and led him through the farm, Maggy trailing behind, to a place I knew he has not been before. To the tree Bob took me to, the tree of life. The tree of my life.

All this time I have managed to keep this tree a secret from everybody else. It was me and Uncle Monkey’s own secret. Andy always cried when I would not let him tag along with me and Mom would calm him down with all sorts of treats and urge me off. As we came closer to the tree, Andy’s expressions widened and brightened. He squeezed my hand from excitement. I looked at him and smiled. There was a feeling inside me that made me feel better with each step we took and with each breath my brother and I took together, sucking in the clean air and letting it blow off the pain within.

We stood, still holding hands, together underneath its wide branches. Its leaves hissing as wind blew through them. Spots of sunshine scattered on and about us. We looked up at it.

“Andy, this is it. The tree of life. The tree of my life. And Uncle Monkey’s. And now soon to be the tree of your life.” I said, my voice had a ring to it I was not familiar with. It was sincere and sanguine, yet with a wee sense of irony.

My little brother was bewildered, I could tell. He was gay. Something about him at that very moment reminded me of myself.

He shot himself.

Yes, he did. But instead of dwelling in the past, I must render to the present and go on in his path. No room for sadness anymore. No place for bitterness and sorrow. Only life.

I let go of my brother’s and stepped forward to the tree. I touched its trunk and smothered my hand over its shrilly skin.

“Come. Feel it.” I told Andy.

“It’s... It’s warm!” he said.

“Yes. Yes it is.” I said more to myself than anyone else. My eyes were watery and that scared me, for I have not shed tears, not even on my Uncle. I wiped my tears and smiled again at my little brother.

“Now, Andy,” I said, with a tease “Watch and learn.”

He stood gaping at what I did next and so did Maggy, her tongue stuck out in excitement.

As I began to climb the tree, placing my hands about its thick, rough log and wrapping my arms about it, hugging the tree, feeling it and smelling its delicate, fresh aroma, filling my lungs and pumping my heart with life, I remembered my uncle’s words: With the tree of life, we will never be alone.

It was yet another fine and beautiful day; blue sky full of white fluffy clouds and a bright warm sun and a cool soft breeze blew about, perfect for another tree-climb.

Just perfect.