On the sixth day of quarantine, my brother called in the morning. Uncle Tian was gone.
He was a friend of my father’s. His village sat right next to ours, and that closeness had built a deep bond between the two men over the years. His family treated my brother and me as if we were their own. When I was in school, my father was often away on business and my mother was still in our home village, so I ate at Uncle Tian’s house all the time.
He was a kind old man. Just like that, he was gone.
I managed a quick call with my father that morning. He said Uncle Tian had gone very fast. The two of them had been out together only yesterday. This morning, a little after six, Uncle Tian felt unwell and called for an ambulance. By the time it arrived, he was already gone. The doctor said it was a myocardial infarction.
I called his son as well, but he was caught up in a mess of arrangements. We exchanged only a few words before he had to hang up.
If it weren’t for this damned pandemic, if it weren’t for the quarantine, I would already be on my way. But as things stand, I cannot see Uncle Tian one last time.
Time passes so quickly. I still think of myself as young, yet somewhere along the way I have reached the age when partings and deaths come around often. I know it is the natural order, but it still hurts.
From the moment a person is born, they are already on the road that leads to death. The only difference is how far each of us travels. Life is unpredictable. If there is a chance, we should make more time for family. The time we have left to spend with them is truly not much.