Waiting...

I'm not sure if this is my earliest memory, I'm not sure how old I was exactly at this moment but this is a memory. I was very young between 2 and 4, sitting on the brown carpet mashing colorful blocks together building something, though I'm not sure what. The screen door was open, and a faint breeze was blowing in. I remember everyone was sad, and had been for a while, I remember it was my first feelings of being lonely, though I wasn't sure why I felt that way. I heard a car pull into the drive way and jumped up, scattering my blocks around where I was sitting. I climbed up the teal colored couch, stabbing my little fingers into the fabric and pulling myself up the back of the couch toward the window seal. I grabbed the curtains and pushed them away from the window, pushed my face against the cool glass, and screamed "Uncle Danny". My mom came running from the kitchen, stumbling past the blocks. At this point I realized it was not my Uncle Danny pulling in our drive way, and it hadn't been the last few times someone came to visit. My mother scooped my little body up into her arms and held me close. I felt her warm tears against my face, which caused me to start crying.
At that point I didn't understand death, and didn't realize my Uncle was not coming over to visit anymore, not that day, and not ever. My mom brings this up when she gets upset about missing family that has passed away, because she thinks it's a good example of how we all feel inside. Still waiting for someone to pull in the driveway and get out of that car, and just not be dead anymore. Sometimes, we just keep on waiting, and that someone just never shows up.