an open letter to Uncle Kurt

Dammit Uncle Kurt, I miss you.

Where are you? Are you still alive?

You have our phone number. I figured you would have called by now.

It’s been six months since we’ve seen or heard from you. Agent Wife said she saw you in November and you offered to house sit and watch the pets while we went to Saskatchewan.

Then we couldn’t find you.

Your camp was still set. But it’s obvious you haven’t been there.

The folks at the Downtown Baptist Beach Head hadn’t seen you. And they had good news: your name finally came up on the waiting list for The Windsor Apartments down town. Too late now, I guess.

The lady you did yard maintenance for hadn’t seen you either. She’s closing down her antique shop, by the way.

And of course, those Nazis at The Wishing Well Shelter wouldn’t give me any information on you. And unfortunately, my inside sources have quit working there. Good for them. I suspect the Nazis didn’t know or care where you were anyway.

I know “the system” was really making you mad. Believe me, you have no idea how mad it makes me. But bolting town without a good-bye or ‘see ya’ is just so...homeless.

Come on, we were family.

If I didn’t have a wife to love and kids to raise, I’d probably have joined you. The fair mother city has that effect on people.

Please come home Uncle Kurt. My wife, kids, and dog miss you.