somebody's someone

Today, I saw my uncle, David, walking down the street.
I hadn't seen him in over 8 years, but I instantly knew it was him.  His posture, his frame, the way he walks is trademark.  I'd know him a mile away.

We were driving pretty fast down a busy expressway, so I couldn't stop to say hello.
He was hunched over and tired looking, he has aged quite a bit, too.
It made me sad in the depths of my heart;
there was my uncle walking down the street like a pauper.
Truth is, he's a brilliant mind with a trust fund,
but I'm sure he's mistaken for a homeless person. I'm sure people are mean to him.
It breaks my heart to think of what his life has been like, especially in contrast to all the other Stetsons.

I have two uncles named David, but this one happens to be schizophrenic.
My mom always told me it was from him doing too many drugs in the 60's.
But we'll never know for sure if that's true.
When he first starting showing signs of mental illness, my memaw was advised to institutionalize him.
In that time, it was just what happened.
I know she felt guilty, what mother wouldn't?
But she was a widow, and his meltdowns really scared her.

He was always a part of family holidays and visits.
He'd always lurk in the outskirts of whatever was going on; he was always a little nervous.
The way he'd ask permission to have a glass of champagne, or a cigarette, always made me sad.
I was very sensitive to the fact that he was, and always would be, treated like a child.
In fact, he used to sit with us at the kids' table on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but we didn't mind.

He kept us guessing as to what he'd say next.  

And his stories were always worth re-tellig to my friends.  

I don't think he ever made it to the adult table, poor guy. 

Memaw always worried about what would become of him after she died.
My uncle Brad has done an outstanding job with his care.
Over the years, he seemed to enjoy family events less and less.
He just likes to do his own thing;
I don't really blame him.
I'm not sure if he'd even know me anymore.

Any mother will tell you that her children are an extension of her heart, and
I felt that today as I passed by him.
There was a living, breathing part of my memaw.
He's distant and broken, like a mixture of  a cowboy and vagabond.
He looks like he's walked a thousand miles in the desert, but he's hers.
And in that same breath, he's mine.
He is my family.

Kinda changes my perspective on all the displaced people I see around my neighborhood.
They are somebody's someone, too.