Niblings

I am in the middle of that commonplace dream where one follows an attractive woman to a van for illicit reasons; only it turns out that she is a honeypot for a serial killer, so one has to freeze him and lecture her about impoliteness -- you know, that dream -- when it shifts. I am in a vast store, vast and scented of hay, dog food, and kitty litter. My seven-year-old niece is fifteen feet away, holding some toy aloft. My mother is checking out and asks Addie if she wants it. It is all clay-colored plastic, unpainted, and vaguely humanoid. Addie hems and haws, so I answer that she does not like it, assuming a pout or glare will contradict me if I am wrong. She puts it down and merrily darts out of the store.

In the parking lot again -- there is a large, gray van near us, and I have to direct them away from it without being conspicuous -- I put my avuncular hand on Addie's upper back to guide her. The moment I do, I feel this powerful charge of missing her. She is soon to move to Longview, Texas, with her family. I will see her far less after than once a month. I knew I was sad over this and understood that this emotion made sense in this situation, but I had not felt the coming loss so palpably as in this dream.

I am startled awake from this scene and remain still in contemplation. Though I have liked many children in my life -- I am a teacher; it comes with the job -- I have loved only a few. Addie knows I love her, but she doesn't understand it as a grade-schooler. She does not have an experience that would explain it. In the two holidays that I have left with the four niblings who will move, I have no way to convey my love that would not be painfully awkward and would have them leave New York with memories of me as their creepy uncle. I will love them moderately, with maybe one or two tighter hugs.

I don't want to lack these kids I love, but it is the next step in their journey. I do not suspect that any of my aunts or uncles who moved away missed me like this. Perhaps my niblings will think the same of me. "Oh, Uncle Thommy. He forgot all about us. I wonder what he is doing these days?" We are more a joking than a demonstrative family.

My brother has requested that everything we give his family this Christmas be in the form of gift cards, the boring necessity of which I understand. Space is at a premium. Amber suggests that, rather than getting them Amazon gift cards and calling it a day, we find things in Longview that they will want to do. It is more fun, more thoughtful, and lets me feel that I contribute to their new lives. Rather than a Google Play card, they might have one for a go-kart track, bounce gym, or cafe near their high school. It will be an experience of their new home rather than something spent and forgotten.

I cry even thinking about it, not meaning to, because I love them so much. I don't know that I will ever miss anyone as I will miss them, even if my interactions with them tend to occur monthly rather than daily or even weekly. I want to squeeze them forever, but they have to go across the country to have far different lives than they otherwise might have. They will become other people, and maybe they will forget the love I hold for them a little.

I was never particularly close with my extended family, indeed nowhere as close as I wished to be with my niblings. I don't see the relationship reflected, but I note the worrying antecedents.

In their moving, I am losing half-formed notions of our future together. I harbored this fantasy that Amber and I would have our niblings over when they were a little older and needed space away from their parents. We never had the home for this, and it did not occur with my elder nieces, who never saw the point to it. I would not have if my family members thought the same of me growing up, so I cannot blame them.

I don't suppose it is much worth indulging in the speculation of what the influence of Texas will do for them. However, I am an author with mental illnesses that make me trace all possible futures so that they cannot surprise me; I almost cannot help it. I stop before going too far, but I imagine a twang entering their Snapchats, a dryness that comes from a lack of proper snow. I picture them tan and tougher. When they come back to New York -- when they come back to a place I will continue to feel in my heart is their home -- they will be a little more strangers to me.

last watched: Inside Job
reading: Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas