My uncle used to paint; he would streak intense black across the canvas. I watched him for hours, but no matter how hard he tried, his ghostly pale hands shook and caused the lines to be choppy and broken.

My sister and I used to spend afternoons in my grandmother’s basement. We would switch the light off and blindly rummage through the assortment of toys. Once, my hand grazed a cold, heavy jar. When the light flickered on, I peered inside. It looked like autumn leaves that had been crushed underfoot. Curious, I unscrewed the lid; a potent scent filled my lungs. Drugs, I thought. Confused, I left the jar in the hallway. It was gone within hours, but a week later I saw the jar in the living room, empty.

I barely remember my uncle, but I possess a few clear memories, like when I was five and he gave my sister and me toy horses for Christmas. He brought them out with a smile. We were joyous with the surprise – the only gift we’d ever received from him. Hours later, when I finally looked up from my presents, I saw my uncle passed out on the couch. Since then, the horses have been packed away with my childhood, shoved into a dusty box in a forgotten corner of our attic.

A year later, I heard my mother’s stifled sobs in the silence of the night. My father was comforting her. In the morning, my mother sat me on the couch. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks stained with damp lines. When she held my hands, hers were ice cold, as though all the life had been sucked out of her. She softly said, “Your uncle overdosed on drugs and died last night.” I was frightened and unsure of how to handle the news. My mother’s tears fell like raindrops on her gray shirt, staining it to an ardent black.

That same week, we flew to my grandmother’s home. Her frail body stiffened when she embraced me. Her once comforting blue eyes had turned a bitter, stone gray. That was years ago, but the sadness still lingers in my her eyes. She loved my uncle more than anyone. After his death, she stopped sewing and cooking. She no longer went to church after spending her childhood reciting hymns by heart. It has been 10 years now, and she still stays home, her face worn with sorrow.

When my sister was 12, my mother admitted, “Before your uncle locked himself away in his room and slept all day, he used to have massive tantrums as a child.” That year, I routinely watched my sister run down the hallway of our home screaming – a pitch so high and forceful I will never forget it. My mother would cry and whisper, “Oh, please, don’t let her turn out like my brother.” Only now do I understand why it made her so upset.

No one cries anymore. Pictures of my uncle are scarce. No one speaks of regrets. It’s almost as though his death has been erased from their memory. I have never heard my grandfather speak of him, and Mom doesn’t celebrate his birthday anymore. I’m too afraid to ask when it is. The pleasant childhood memories of my uncle blur with the melancholy history – a life that he no longer lives, a history of pain that was left for our family.

I was taught from elementary school that addicts are careless people, but that’s not the case. Addiction can happen to anyone. “Normal people” with families and jobs can walk down that path, especially if they are genetically predisposed to addiction or mental illness. Because of my uncle, I have become more sympathetic toward addicts, and have realized that our society needs to pay closer attention to the destruction it can cause. We need to recognize these problems and give sufferers the support they need, rather than blaming them or ignoring the circumstances. The story of my uncle serves a precaution that has helped me to become more aware of the severity of addiction. This has ultimately taught me to avoid situations that would lead to falling into the same trap my uncle did.