The Flight Of The Butterfly

He left on Labor Day Weekend.

I was taking out the trash when I got the call that Uncle Sal was gone.  It was my father who told me.  I don't think I had ever heard my father cry before that moment. His voice trembled on the other end of the phone as I returned from dumping recyclables outside my Brooklyn apartment.  "Uncle Sal died."

Then I was the one crying.  Collapsing. Overtaken.  My life has never been the same.  None of ours are.  Because you never get over it. You never forget.  This piece of you that can never be replaced.

Two days later, I'm in Tucson.  In the desert, saying a final goodbye to my uncle -- the guy who left the concrete jungle for cacti and coyotes when I was just a little kid.  I sat at a hotel room desk and wrote Uncle Sal's obituary. I cried some more. I shaved, I put on a tie. At the funeral home, I handed my cousin a CD-R -- the soundtrack to my uncle's funeral, a death mix tape.  Jimi's "Red House" kicked it off. By the second verse of The Beatles' "In My Life," I was a sobbing mess all over again.

My uncle and his younger sister (aka 'Mom') - were my middle class hippie heroes. They had seen Hendrix live. I would eventually borrow (steal) all the 45 rpm records that Mom had stored in the junk room of my parents' basement. Dad's and Uncle Sal's were down there too - Steppenwolf, The Stones. The Doors and Fleetwood Mac.  Treasure.   

Uncle Sal was an explorer. He drove cross country more than once.  He loved to go camping, he loved to cook (he hated to clean), and -- especially in his later years -- he really seemed to love his life.

He moved to Arizona when I was 7, the first in a close-knit Italian-American family to give up the spoils of city life.  By 'spoils', I mean he worked in a candy store under the el train just a few blocks from where they filmed the show open to Welcome Back, Kotter.

Uncle Sal broke up the band, and I loved him even more after that.  His annual Brooklyn visits were calendar-clearing events, beginning with the traditional pizza devouring contest, our dining room table covered with "squares" from L&B Spumoni Gardens. We would go to Coney Island, The Museum Of Natural History.  Uncle Sal would take Mom and I to Chumley's, a West Village speakeasy frequented by writers like e.e. cummings and John Steinbeck during The Prohibition. Even as an out-of-towner, Uncle Sal was my tour guide. He taught me that you could love New York without living in it.

In the desert, Uncle Sal played host, his new life forcing his reluctant family to step outside the door and actually see the world.  The house he had built with his own hands in the middle of nowhere was filled with junk, vinyl records, musical instruments, animals, and more junk. A proud hoarder was he.

He saw wonder in the mundane, and in doing so, made it seem more valuable.

I returned home after the funeral, back to 'Real Life'... whatever that was now.  Feeling robbed.  That is still the predominant feeling today.  I've been cheated.  The feeling we get when someone we truly love departs.  What about all that stuff we were gonna do?

I think about Uncle Sal every day -- a man I sometimes never saw nor spoke to for weeks, or even months, when he was alive.  He is still the coolest, he is still so special.  But he is something more.

He is my constant reminder that things can get better.

That's what a butterfly is.  It's the caterpillar that crawled through the mud, then emerged from a cocoon, soaring through the skies.  It is transformation. It is magnificence. It is rebirth.

I was crawling through the mud in the years after my uncle's death, then my world was washed away by Mother Nature.  I wasn't baptized by those dirty ocean waters, but I was awakened. All at once, I had to deal with all this hard shit, and it was just mine this time - mine and my dog's.  Buttons, the lovable nut whose own comeback from those dark and homeless days has strongly reflected my own.

You don't get through the toughest times overnight, but it happens.  Because life is an uphill battle, always.  Growth is evolution, it's a constant thing, otherwise it's not anything at all.  You can take that adversity and use it as fuel -- a commitment to do better, to live better, to be better. To become braver, tougher.... more grateful for what you have. But there are always higher mountains to climb.  

I went back to the desert after Uncle Sal left.  I was there last Labor Day weekend, making music with his son, Cousin Mike. Growing another inch on my wings.  Later the same year, I traveled to Europe with Uncle Sal on my mind. Making new memories, making a new album.  



The life span of a butterfly is only a few months, sometimes even a few weeks. Only so much time to experience the wonders of the world, the magic in this life.  Uncle Sal did that, too - rafting down The Nile, trekking to Egypt, traveling to Italy to trace our family ancestry.

But Uncle Sal's greatest transformation was borne from love -- someone who put a twinkle in his eye, who renewed his lust for life. He crawled out of the mud and this romance was his reward.  It's not until we get ourselves right that we can truly be right for anyone else. That we've earned the chance to get more than we deserve.

Uncle Sal loved outwardly in his later years. With gusto. Big bear hugs. Always an "I love you."  He seemed at ease - with himself, with the universe.  He was a hippie jester with strong opinions and a soothing tone to his voice. He told great bad jokes, could fix anything you put in front of him.  He was a flawed human being who made good choices and bad ones, who seemed to have learned something from them all.

In his final chapter, my mother's brother seemed larger than life - gracious, happy. I was only getting a brief glimpse of that life - a snapshot of it - but it felt genuine. Uncle Sal wasn't a rock star, he was not rich nor famous. He was a science teacher. He loved his job and was admired by his students, his peers and of course, his family.

Uncle Sal's motto was Carpe Diem. He seemed to have truly seized the day, figured it all out - and then *poof*....he was gone.

He left on Labor Day Weekend but he has never really left.   He is still every slice of L&B pizza, every trip to Coney Island. He is still -- and will always be -- the desert.  He is always there, and he is not the only one.  There are butterflies everywhere, reminding us that we have to crawl before we can soar, even if for just a little while.  That we should do our best to enjoy the journey.  That we have to lose before we can appreciate what winning is.  That we can always do better, can always reach higher.

Thanks, Uncle Sal.  For taking me on the path.
All these years later and you're still showing me how to fly.

Say A Little Prayer For Uncle Sethie

I hope there are movies in Heaven. 

I love you Seth.  I love you, man.  I can't believe you're gone.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I didn't write this sooner, so you could read it while you were still here with the rest of us.  Why do we always wait until waiting is no longer an option?  In the hospital, I asked you if it was okay to write about you - about your plight - and I never ask anyone if it's okay to write about them before I actually go and do it.  Just ask all my ex'es.  You said 'Yes' and I didn't write anything until now, and I'm sorry.

Yesterday, I got the call that you were gone and it wasn't a surprise.  LaSala broke the news.  He left me a voicemail while I was playing the piano in the other room.  When I saw that LaSala had called, I knew you were gone before I even called him back.  Anthony LaSala never calls anyone, as you well know.  Sicilian pirates rarely use cell phones.

Anthony called us all, just as he called us all a year ago when you got sick.  Lloyd and Jay.  Tween.  Skeery Jones, the Tuccillos and Pablo.  We all know each other forever, "The Brooklyn Crew."  We still wear our eternal friendship like a badge of honor, as if it were something special.  And it was always just that.  It still is, now more than ever.  Now that you're gone.

I was going through my latest romantic misadventure a year ago when I got the word that you were in the hospital.  You could barely talk when I paid my first visit.  I told you that I was being two-timed and you rolled your eyes and sighed, just like the old days.  Your sudden illness made my problems seem like a pittance, it put everything into perspective and actually helped me navigate through another tough time.

Back in the day, a Seth Kushner malady was like football on a Sunday.  It was almost always on the schedule, one of many running jokes that friends like ours perpetuate over the years.  But things were serious this time.  Leukemia.

I hope it didn't take one of my stoopid blogs for you to understand how proud of you I am.  How you fought to stick around, to regain that normalcy to your life that we all take for granted until things start to go haywire.  You were doing it til the very end, against all odds - sharing your opinions about various TV shows and movies on Facebook, taking in as much of it as you could in those final days.  You were in the home you had created with the family that you created - your son and your courageous wife - where you were always most comfortable, even before the sickness crept in.

The last time I saw you at the hospital, the prognosis was bad.  I expected to walk in and say goodbye for the last time.  I expected to see a battered man taking in his last breaths.  But you were a spitfire that day, you were optimistic.  "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you sonofabitches," you growled determinedly.  You were being strong, stronger than I had ever seen you.

Then a man neither of us knew walked in.  He told you he was sent by someone you knew, but you could not figure out who that person was, nor could he verify it.  Instead, he prayed aloud and sang a hymn as we sat there quietly in your hospital room, and then he was gone, some mysterious angel sent to give you more strength.

You were in a coma a few hours after I left, with a swift death sentence attached to it.  Then you woke up.  Weeks later, you were released from the hospital, declared leukemia-free.  You got to hang with your Hang Dai crowd, to spend time with your great friends Carlos and Marty and Dean, three dudes who got to know you better than I ever did and who loved you just as much.  You made peace with your Mom.  You got to spend your last days in Brooklyn like the tried-and-true Brooklynite you were.  You were a dead man walking, a temporary miracle, and so when I returned Anthony's call, I knew what was coming before he even uttered a word.

I still don't know what to believe, Seth.  I stayed positive, we all did.  You were never totally out of the woods, and now you're out of our lives.  Are you on Tatooine right now?  Are you anywhere?  Last night, I sat out on my back porch, poured out a bottle of wine and looked up at the stars.  "Are you up there, Uncle Sethie?" I asked to no one at all.  And then the fireworks started.  Lots of them.  Last I checked, it wasn't the 4th of July.  And yeah, I'm pretty big on signs.

I'll never forget the look on your face the first time I saw you after Superstorm Sandy.  It's etched in my brain, one of those snapshot moments that stick with you forever.  My house had been destroyed and you walked into a Bay Ridge restaurant while I was hugging the rest of the gang, and I caught the look on your face as you walked in, waiting your turn to hug me too.

You looked at me as if someone had died.

In that moment, even tho I had been the one numbed by Mother Nature's wrath, I felt bad for you.  You were always concerned, even affected, by the misfortune of others.  When your friends were suffering, you were suffering too.  And in that moment, I felt lucky to have you as my friend.  Just as I do in this moment, now that your suffering is over even if the void you've left will be forever felt.

You were one of the staunchest supporters of my music - you came to all the shows, the good ones and the shitty ones.  You created the album artwork for all my Q*Ball albums.  You were an incredibly talented photographer, and I still feel like that was always your truest calling.  You co-directed my one and only music video.  You put me in a spaceship, you put me in a bathtub, you put me in a swimming pool with a powder blue suit on.  You put colored star stickers and Christmas lights all over my skull.  We were young kids trying to figure out how to convey an image, and then we were middle aged dudes still trying to figure it out.  Your hard work and creativity were always an inspiration, even when we got it all wrong.

We had a quarter century together, my friend.  Something to be grateful for.

Our primary language was cinema.  TV and books and girls.  You never forgave me for shitting all over Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull after we saw it together in Battery Park City.  We huddled down together in Brooklyn after 9/11.  You drove me home after I played a showcase at Virgin Megastore, then pulled over on Independence Avenue so I could go piss in someone's driveway because I couldn't hold it in any longer.  We bought you a lightsaber for your 30th birthday.  You got me home after I had a bad pot brownie experience at The Frying Pan the summer after the worst breakup of my life.  We interviewed Chuck Klosterman at his apartment in Brooklyn Heights and I almost erased the whole thing.  Calamity was always our second language.

We called you Chief Yenta because you liked to gossip.  We playfully made fun of your pale complexion, of your propensity for speed talking, and you always took it in stride.  You were there for me after my divorce, after the hurricane.  I got stood up on an online date in Bay Ridge one night, and you and Terra met me out for dinner, salvaging the evening.  You bonded with all my girlfriends - you were always rooting for my romantic victories and you listened intently and patiently after all the defeats.

You were a great friend, Seth.

And then it was your turn to taste victory.  It remains the fondest memory of our friendship, that fateful night in Boston when you met Terra.  Some slug got up from his seat in a basement bar in Beantown and Anthony and I nudged you into it, and there she was and there you were, and we hung back and left the rest up to you.  You sealed the deal that night and we were all proud of you.  Thrilled for you.  The Schmuck was finally victorious.

Your life was forever changed, and I'm sure you realized in the end that you had hit the jackpot with this woman.  I'm proud to have played my small part in all that, to see you become a loving husband and father.

Soon after you and I first met, you lost your Dad in a tragic accident.  He was riding his bicycle on Ocean Parkway and was struck and killed by a motorist.  Joel Kushner was a guidance counselor at my high school, Edward R. Murrow, and he knew me before you did.  And then he was gone and I remember hugging you at the funeral, thinking of how your Dad had left you too soon just as I think about you being gone way too soon now.

We became good friends after that, bound by a mutual love of geek culture, music and movies.  I had been to your house a time or two, inside the rubble you called a room, piles of comics, Rolling Stone magazines and action figures dominating every corner.  I met a lot of cool creative people thanks to our friendship, and even as our lives took divergent paths as we both aged and found new creative outlets, I still felt a closeness to you that distance and lifestyles could not tarnish.

And now you're gone, Sethie, and I don't know what to believe - but if I get to choose, I wanna believe that you and Joel are at the movies right now.  You're watching Star Wars (not the prequels, sorry).  Maybe you're 41, maybe you're Jackson's age.  Maybe you're not any age at all, maybe you're a butterfly or a Jawa.  Whatever you are and wherever you are, I like to think that you're with Dad.  You're reunited, and it feels so good.

That's what I have always hoped the afterlife is - a reunion.  We hurt so much for the people that are gone - seemingly forever - left to pick up the pieces, to try to keep the faith and make sense of it all.  I still hold out hope that Nana and Nicky and Uncle Sal will be there on the other side.  Uncle John, Grandma & Grandpa.  Blanche and The Big Cookie and Seth and Joel.  What we would give to spend just a little more time with those who have left us behind.

There's a whole world of people out there right now who feel cheated out of more Seth Kushner time, and isn't that the truest testimony of a person's vitality?  You mattered to us, Seth.  I hope you knew that.  Now it's up to the rest of us to keep your memory alive while we keep the faith that you are in a better place.

So keep a seat open for me, my man.  Just don't eat all the popcorn.  We'll watch all the Scorsese movies, Hitchcock and Kubrick.  Lost, Breaking Bad.  Seinfeld and The Honeymooners and Batman Begins.  We'll hoist some brews and have another Ronversation, reminiscing and rejoicing over one of life's great friendships.

Say a little prayer for Uncle Sethie tonight, for his wife Terra, his young son Jackson and his mother, Linda.  For all of his family and for everyone who he has touched.  

Say a prayer for one of life's true good guys.