Crowded Tables
Callie Shaw
May 2023
Nearly my whole life I was told that “should” was a bad word - a word that sneakily passed judgment, creeping into conversations, impressing its beliefs onto my own.
When you are younger, the “shoulds” are simple - I should probably not talk back to Mom, I should probably have just asked for the second Klondike bar instead of sneaking it from Grandma’s freezer, I should have probably not gotten the pixie cut in the second grade. The regrets may exist, but none that are so soul-consuming I would trade the gentle character building they each brought for the alternative.
As life ticks on, hair grows longer, moms become friends, and ice cream simply never loses its appeal - but the “shoulds” become a little heavier.
I sat in the back room of a quiet restaurant in Rome, Italy as tears streamed down my face. I watched my reflection in the corner of my Zoom screen, shadowing over Aunt Pammy and Uncle Timbo’s warm backyard, overflowing with family and friends. My heart was in my stomach, broken into a million pieces. As Father Walter recited the Anointing of the Sick, each word hung in the air, lingering, dancing around me - taunting me with the message I so badly didn’t want to receive - he would be gone, and gone sooner than I would make it home for.
Should I fly home? Should I cancel my travels, refund my tickets, pack my bags, and hurry back? Should I skip classes, should I skip meals, should I stay in bed, close my eyes, and wish I were somewhere else?
The thing about “shoulds” is that there is never a concrete yes or no answer - they exist because of the inherent doubt that intoxicates their questions, toying with our anxieties, our sorrows, and our heaviest struggles.
Ten weeks. Ten weeks of praying the Rosary on my fingers on public transportation. Ten weeks of daydreaming about how easy life once was, when tables were crowded and rooms were warm with life and laughter. Ten weeks of “shoulds”, some woulds, and coulds.
Ten weeks until I saw him - ten weeks and he was there, waiting for me. Ten weeks and we sat, we laughed, we existed in the same space, wholeheartedly for one last time.
Uncle Timbo - there are no words to describe the grief we all feel, the grief I feel. There are no perfectly strung-together syllables that could encapsulate how you seemed to bottle up all the colors in the world, painting our lives with your kindness, your empathy, your joy, and your interest. The grief I feel will last an eternity I think. What I have learned is that in a lot of ways, grief is really just love. All the love I have ever and will ever want to give and can’t. All the love that existed in our 21 perfect years together. All the love that I will carry with me, welled up in the corners of my eyes, the lump in my throat, the quiet parts of my heart.
My grief, for you Uncle Timbo, is just love with nowhere to go.
So today, I “should” all over myself. I dare myself to be brave, to carry him in my smile, in my laugh. I dare myself to cherish our beautiful memories, our irreplaceable friendship. Today I say that I should go out into our world - I should love loudly, dance in kitchens, hug tight. Today I should continue to live passionately because if there is one thing in this big, scary world I know for sure, it's that we should all be a little more like Uncle Timbo. May we embody his undeniable strength, his never wavering faith, his eyes that saw the best in people, his heart that forgave to any degree, his home that overflowed with care for others, a crowded table full of the people who he would never, ever give up on.
To crowded tables, to sunsets that burn our eyes, to books that need reading and fanny packs that need wearing, fish that need catching, and songs that need singing.
To you, Uncle Timbo.
Should I ever know a love like yours again, may I never take it for granted.
