"My uncle Edmund had polio.
That's what I'm saying.
I've lived in a time of polio, of malaria of yellow fever.
Uncle Edmund was my grandfather's brother.
My grandfather loved him dearly.
He looked after him with the duty of a beloved.
This is what it means to love in a time of epic infection,
to tend after the inflicted with the understanding
that we were all mandated to live through massive trauma.
Uncle Edmund lived in Tunapuna.
We lived in Arouca.
Sometimes my grandmother sent me to take food
to Uncle Edmund in metal food carriers.
It was four miles away.
Sometimes I'd walk and spend the taxi fare on beer
on my way back.
I was 10.
I lived in the time of walking places.
I will tell my children this.
I am 42.
I will probably not have any.
It is Sunday morning at a lovers house.
And I am on the verge of weeping as I say this.
The food was always still hot when I got there.
It was a tropical country.
You could walk for miles with a tray of hot food
and have it stay hot.
I lived in a time of heat.
Uncle Edmund's house smelled dank, cool.
I remember it as always dark but this might be a lie.
I unhinge the trays from the carrier,
got an enamel plate from the cupboard,
and dish the food out for him.
So I could take back the empty carrier.
So I could bring him food next day.
I'd pour him juice made from reconstituted oranges mixed
with water and sugar.
He talked.
The polio made it hard to understand him.
But I nodded, asked him if everything was to his liking.
I've lived in a time of beauty, is
what I want to tell my children.
I've lived in a time of love.
My lover brings me the hottest, bitterest coffee
I am grateful for this.
But I am weeping for my non-children.
I never lingered at Uncle Edmund's, never
waited until the end of his meal.
My grandfather waited until the end of his meals when he went.
I went once with my grandfather.
He spoke to his brother in low, almost dulcet tones.
I had never heard him speak like that before.
My grandfather loved my mother dearly.
She was his adopted child but he held us both closer than blood.
I tell you, I've lived in a time of miracles.
I've lived because of miracles.
And I want to tell my children this.
Whatever we do we're going to have to consider immense loss.
That is all.
That is the magic of old age.
Immense loss side by side with love.
How amazing to be uncle Edmund, to be loved
in a time of polio, and malaria, and yellow fever,
and dysentery.
We all lived in a time when you could
send a 10-year-old on a four mile walk
and have him complete a task and return
on time and with a beverage to boot.
My grandfather buried uncle Edmund in the family plot.
He lit candles on all Saints' Day.
I think we were the only ones at the funeral.
This is also what it means to live in a time of polio,
to be buried unknown, but not any less loved
than the Pope or the president.
I wanted to tell my children this.
We are all worried about not being good enough for love.
Imagine all we have.
Imagine all we love and live through.
Imagine what a chance we have to endure the very
worst that might come our way.
[APPLAUSE]