Goodbye Mathemetician

Mathemetician uncle. I am sorry I did not go fishing with you, five years ago I was tired from a road trip and you were a lot to handle one on one. A genius. A giant. A speaker of fifteen languages. A topologist. An expert in set theory. I could not work my way through the abstracts of your papers, in fact, the titles were a mystery to me. You travelled the world. You grew up on a ranch and branded cattle. You smoked menthol cigarettes, and I like to think that somehow, in another cosmos parallel to this one, an undying aspect of you is still sitting at the Satire, in Denver, with a menthol cigarette in one hand and a self-satisfied grin on its face. Your face. Jack, I will miss you.