The water is freezing now and I am alone in the cold air of the bathroom, the wind of late November leaking in through the storm window. There he is, a frost angel painted on the glass, telling me he is there, my dead Uncle.
Their apartment was small. The front room had their bed, the wardrobe with the mothball smell, for their clothes, the telephone table with the writing pad, the corner table with the little glass ornaments and the TV with pictures on top of it. There was even a picture of me when I went to the photographers’, except I was wearing a red sweater and in the picture, he made it blue. Aunt Mary even let me play with the ornaments sometimes, but my little brother wasn’t allowed to touch them.
The other room was the people room. It had the kitchen table, the buffet china cabinet with the fancy plates and the small fridge and little stove. They had no sink. They filled plastic tubs with water from the bathroom and brought them in when they needed to wash the dishes. The bathroom was off the long hallway. They shared it with dead Johnny. He had no wife, no kids either.
I sat at that kitchen table with Uncle Dan all the time. That’s where he taught me to play checkers and try his cigarette so I would choke and not try smoking and get lung cancer. That’s where he offered to trade me his whole full wallet for the two dollar bill I got for my birthday, but I wouldn’t take the chance. That’s where he bounced me on his knee when I was small, like my Angel Monster brother, and sang French songs from the farm and let me drink from his beer bottle. That’s the table where the men sat when they all came over to visit and drink beer and talk the way the old farmers talk and share what they had even if they only had a little. That’s where they talked about business and the government and cancer and how the rich are taking over the country. How could he be dead? It made no sense.
Like and share this with your friends
Join my mailing list on the Contact Me page on my website, address below.