Uncle Martin...
I don't know you, but feel I do, and wonder about you often. You hover in my head like a cloud. Your head and shoulders are smokey and unfocused around the edges. I make up your face because I dont remember it at all. In my thoughts, you look like an explorer from the 1900's and have a gold tooth. You are not big in size
Are you left handed like me?
I would like to hear your stories about your time in the cave. In the abandoned army bunker in the hills of Papua New Guniea. I'd like to know what you ate and drank, what creatures you saw, and the things you watched people do, who did not know they were being watched. I imagine your little eyes sparkling in the hills, taking in what they can -
I did not know what to say when mum said you became a heroin addict. I imagine maybe it was you trying to hide in that cave again, high above other humans. In the comfort of a mysterious dark space.
I am glad you are strong and are still on the methedone program.
My father's father, who had eight children and one wife (irish catholic). I don't remember ever meeting him. He died of a heart attack in the 80's, I remember dad getting the phone call and getting it mixed up in my memory with a police drama that was on the t.v in the background. 
