Slipping Away
I can't hear the song from back in the day by Bob Dylan, 'Quinn the Eskimo' and not think of my cousin Coco's father.
He stood maybe 5 foot 2 inches, and in his day he was a jockey, probably weighed just a bit over a hundred pounds. His name was Matt Quinn.
It's been about forty years since he passed away. He'd been divorced from my aunt for quite a few years when he died in Florida. He made items that he sold at the race track from the back of his van which he also lived in.
At one point he asked someone, please don't let them bury me in Florida or North Dakota, (the state of his birth). What a quandary, his oldest daughter didn't want to fly him out of Florida, but...
There might have been a rumor that Matt Quinn had made a large amount of money on a race bet just before he died. There might have been a rumor that he'd hidden the money in his boot.
Regardless what the rumor may have been, it was decided to fly the body back to Iowa for burial. I don't know that the rumors ever produced any results except he wasn't buried in Florida or North Dakota.
When I think on my childhood and how close we were as children I am saddened at how far we came and how far apart we grew. Coco was like a sister to me—my sister was like a sister to me. I don't know what happened.
We can contemplate the what ifs all day, but no one but God knows. However, in 1992 after a rift with Coco's oldest sister, I didn't reach out again until 2002 at least. I no longer had a relevant address, and didn't pursue finding one. I'd do that 'later'.
I'll always think that had I been there, perhaps she would have thought there was something more pleasant in life than in death.
And my sister? Could I have changed things for her? Would she have looked for solace in alcoholic drink if she had remained close to us who are still left of her family?
Years had come between myself and most of my family, not just Coco and my Sister, when my Adorable Cousin and I began to renew our relationship.
It was hit and miss, since we are both busy, and I don't work one-sided relationships well. I'll go the extra mile a few times, but...
The race isn't about how you start. The race is about how you finish. Or as someone has said, it isn't the beginning date or the end date on the tombstone, it's the dash in between. The problem is the dash goes so fast we're often left at the end wondering what happened.
