We all thought Uncle Jack a bit peculiar. He would spend most of his days in the dense scrub behind the house, getting up to nothing in particular. Or so we thought.
Everyone in our large family was constantly occupied with meaningful tasks: going off to study, to work or look for work, heading out to travel, dashing to meetings, to rehearsals, training or sport, to engagements or entertainments of one kind or another. Everyone was busy busy busy: we formed a constant stream of traffic in and out. Our front door was a portal leading to all the promise and possibilities of life, for those who would go and pursue them. Which was everyone … except Uncle Jack.
Uncle Jack hardly ever passed through the front door. Only when he really had to. Or to help someone in need. And no-one else ever went out the back. Because, why would you? There was only scrub. Uncle Jack was sweet enough, and kindly, always with a smile which seemed to speak for him – so we left him alone. No-one ever thought to inquire about what he got up to all day.
Then the phone call came. Someone said they absolutely had to speak with Uncle Jack, and it couldn’t wait. Being the only one home, I’d have to go and find him. Out in the stupid scrub. Somewhere out the back.
And there it was. My heart stopped.
Just a metre behind the hedge: softly shimmering unearthly beauty, whispering leaves an ethereal chorus, a magical shaded pool of fragrant tranquillity; perfection fulfilled. Through the timeless breathless stillness, with a knowing nod, smilingly Uncle Jack floated off to the phone. He was never seen thereafter.
Nowadays, they look at me the way we used to look at Uncle Jack.