Dear Uncle Marc,
You’d never guess where I am. In about a month, I’ll finish my third year at Yale University. This year I’m living off campus in my very own New Haven apartment. I’m nine hours away from Mom and Dad in Lynchburg, and always three seconds away from some attention-seeking motorcyclist proudly revving outside my window. On my windowsill I keep a humble collection of jewelry, and the centerpiece is a gold necklace Mom gave me. Until recently, I didn’t know why she gave it to me. Until recently, it didn’t remind me of you.
I thought my gold necklace was originally a gift from Dad to Mom. Its charm contains the letter “P,” so I figured that
Dad (you don’t know him, but he’s also named Prentiss) had performed the age-old, juvenile gesture of “claiming” his girl. (Nowadays, you just slap her first initial in your Instagram bio and call it a day.)
The necklace Mom gave me is an intricate series of tiny ovals joined by tinier circles, and it tangles easily. When unraveled and clasped on my neck, it hangs inches above my heart. It’s short, like a high school couple’s honeymoon phase. On the clasp, there’s a speck of gray where the chain was broken and welded back together.
The charm looks like a small rectangular picture frame, with flowery edges sharp enough to cut my lips, a backdrop of yellow diamonds, and a silver “P” in the center. The “P” has a rippled texture, like a puddle searching for stability.
When she fastened the necklace on my neck, it felt like she was admitting that their flame had died and fertilizing me with the ashes.
When Mom gave me the alleged token of her and Dad’s affection, I thought that she was relinquishing their love and anointing me its only fruitful outcome. When she fastened the necklace on my neck, it felt like she was admitting that their flame had died and fertilizing me with the ashes. I was around ten. It was the year I got my first cell phone. I wasn’t yet using it to call girls. Back then, all I claimed was high scores on Doodle Jump. Mom told me she used to wear your ring on the necklace. She thought Dad gave her the “P,” but she doesn’t remember. The P seems like an accident. Like me. Also a mystery. But Mom remembers why she thought this was the perfect gift for me. She remembers that when she was about the same age, you gave her a chain.
Gold link, just like mine, only a little smaller. It had a charm, a cursive D. She remembers that it was either her eighth or ninth birthday, and you were living in different states. She thinks it was the only present she got. Or at least she can’t remember any others. During the conversation in which she told me all of this, I started to think, If she hadn’t had that necklace she might’ve forgotten her name was Dana.
Dates, places, and ages are difficult for Mom to remember, since she was moving around a lot, but her memory is certain about feelings. She remembers how it felt to receive the jewelry, which trekked down the coast with a handwritten letter as its only luggage. It made her feel like you hadn’t forgotten her.
Mom remembers all the letters you sent. “You better not have a boyfriend.” And “I hope that you can talk to me. I know you can’t always talk to Mom and Dad; you can always talk to me.” She felt like you were still checking on her and protecting her, even though you weren’t there.
You might want to check on her current boyfriend, my dad, who’s probably in the basement drinking Tito’s and yelling at Stephen A. Smith.
When you wrote her eighth or ninth birthday letter, you were eighteen or nineteen years old. At that time you were locked up.
She remembers how stoked you were when she visited in middle school. She remembers you making jokes about how you used the lid of the can to chop up your tuna because they wouldn’t give you utensils. They wouldn’t give you a spoon but they’d let you wield the lid of a metal can?
She remembers leaving the jail. She remembers thinking that when she got older, you might have felt abandoned. She felt like the family left you behind.
So I called her the other night and we remembered you for an hour. Here’s some of the stuff she said:
“He was so funny.”
“He didn’t like me being shy.”
“His laugh was just so crazy. I don’t think anybody could impersonate it.”
“He made me feel comfortable in my own skin.”
“He was always himself.”
“I hope my brother knows how much I love him. I hope he didn’t pass away not knowing how much I loved him.”
On Friday, August 19th, 1994—In Lynchburg, Virginia—At age 14—At your funeral, she remembers having anew piece of jewelry: your gold ring, with nine clover-shaped cut-outs on either side of the band. On the top, there’s a familiar emblem: a letter made from slightly tarnished silver, with a ripple. It’s like ocean water reflecting the moonlight. The gentle, steady tide of a quiet night. The letter K. You went by Knowledge instead of Marc. I knew this before my call with Mom, but she told me that your nickname represented your open-minded, conscious, and confident presence. I never knew your presence, but when Mom talked about you, I could feel it in the tremor of her voice over the phone. I could start to feel it myself, in the gold jewelry pouring through my fingers.
It’s like oceanwater reflecting the moonlight. The gentle, steady tide of a quiet night.
Knowledge, I’m writing to you because, until now, I could feel your presence only through other people’s memories. But now I know my necklace is like a gift you’ve given, and that my letter looks eerily similar to yours. There are more than states between us and it may be decades until we meet, but in the meantime, I have a memory of you beside my window or in my hands or close to my heart.
This is all thanks to Mom, who couldn’t help but plant the seeds of Knowledge in my mind. Today, I wept and watered those seeds, and now I’ll wait for her fruit to grow.
Your nephew,
Prentiss
Prentiss Patrick-Carter is a junior in Hopper College
