“My uncle has died.”

That sentence says nothing.


It doesn’t say how a man 700km away went out of his way to make a broken girl feel his presence.

It doesn’t say how that man somehow always knew when to get in touch, always knew when she was about to shatter, to give her the warmth of his love.

It doesn’t say how an uncle tried his best to fill the void of a missing father.

It doesn’t say how he instinctively understood the bond of a father-daughter shared birthday, and made sure that lonely girl’s birthday was never silent.

It doesn’t say how a family tragedy has become a family trend.

It doesn’t say how much heartbreak can ripple and resound in a family.

It doesn’t say anything about four brothers, two lost.

It doesn’t say anything about two fathers, stalwart for their families.

It doesn’t say anything about two men, tortured in silence.

It doesn’t say anything about two daughters, broken and abandoned.

It doesn’t say anything about the anger, the pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the fear, the hopelessness.

It doesn’t say anything about the warmth of his heart, the power of his love.


That sentence says nothing.