Goodbye Uncle

Dad didn't tell me when my uncle died. Whether he forgot,
thought he told me, or just thought I'd somehow know, I'm not quite sure.
But I didn't find out for months. I guess that's the price I pay
for not going home or checking up on people.

You assume they just keep living. And usually they do,
but not in Uncle Carl's case.
He was old, sick and weak, but that doesn't mean I expected it,
it doesn't mean I didn't care.

He hated children, but had a soft spot for me. I was obstinate,
wouldn't take no for an answer - even from him.
I think he liked that he didn't scare me, like he did my cousins.
I'd clomp into the empty front room he'd always sit in with his cats,
while the other adults drank and gossiped in the kitchen.
But he wouldn't have any part of that.

He'd just sit there on the couch, thinking.
He'd tell me to go away and play. I'd ignore him, climb onto his lap
and hand him a book. "Read to me." I'd state plainly. "No. Go away. Leave me be."
he'd reply. "Read to me please?" And I'd have won the battle that day.

He'd exhale sharply, making an annoyed, grunting noise.
"Fine," he'd finally say.
He never read with voices, never acted out the characters, wouldn't let me look
at the pictures, and when he was done, he'd kick me out.
Tell me to go play, "Leave an old man alone."
And that's the way it was. No hugs or kisses, no fawning over my blue eyes and blonde hair or mindless babble of how smart or pretty I was like the other adults.

But he always bought me fantastic books for my birthdays.
While my cousins got dresses and dollhouses from his wife,
Tolkien and Lewis littered my bookshelves because of him.

My dad didn't tell me when my uncle died.
No tears, no goodbyes.
Just a memory of the days he read to me.