As I write this it’s about 3:17AM, and I can’t sleep.

Something is on my mind, and so I’ll do what I’ve always done in moments like these.

I’ll write.

I’m thinking of someone, and I’m thinking about statistics and what they mean.

How the word “numb” is inside “number.” 1/

My only uncle on my dad’s side of the family is his youngest brother. He is a kind and gentle soul. He joined the army at a young age, and eventually chose to become a teacher.

A person finding his way in life.

He always treats me with infinite patience, and kindness. 2/

My father is the older brother, bigger, stronger, more athletic, eager to talk sports or tell a good joke.

My uncle is smaller, soft-spoken, wanting to discuss books, to show me the nuance in drawing a rose (“petals layer in this way”).

I’ve never heard him raise his voice. 3/

When I was a little kid, he would “go fishing” with me in the living room. We would both sit on the couch and pretend to catch fish.

He would always be duly impressed by my fake haul.

Playing make-believe with an enthusiastic kid can be exhausting, but he never showed it. 4/

As the years passed, we grew apart. I grew up, went off to school, immersed myself in this life I was building, my life.

My uncle lives far away. He taught many students over the years, and eventually retired.

He raised three lovely daughters, my cousins. 5/

I want to speak with my uncle again.

To ask him numerous questions, to hear about the way he sees the world and the lessons he has learned.

What matters to him, what memories does he cherish?

Who is he, beneath the quiet smile and the distant gaze?

What does he see? 6/

In March of 2021 my uncle spikes a fever and develops a cough.

He tests positive for COVID-19.

He is briefly hospitalized, and gets better after treatment, but worsens again and has to be re-admitted.

Every day his daughters send lab results for us to review. 7/

I want to talk to him, but he is confused, agitated, requiring escalating oxygen delivery.

The lab data looks a certain way when it’s your own family, your own blood, someone you love.

Each number hits like a missile.

This damn disease, this damn illness. 8/

He worsens, despite all treatments. Is he vaccinated? No, he was in line to get one but couldn’t in time.

I have a strange dream.

My uncle is walking with me, along an infinite shoreline, talking to me.

Early this morning I wake up to 10 missed phone calls, and I know. 9/

So when you look at the global mortality data, know that one of those numbers is my uncle, Major (Retd.) Anwar Tabatabai.

A soft-spoken man who pretended to fish with a little boy on a living room couch long ago.

A kind man, that the world was better with.

Someone I loved. 10/

They tell me as he was dying, my uncle said he could see his parents (who died long ago), sitting at a table from his childhood.

His last words were “Khana lag gaya...” (“dinner is on the table”).

Wear a mask, get vaccinated.

For those you love.

And those you’ll never know.