Fiction

By dylan miguel trinidad

Century High School

Cry, Uncle

Distance 

I worry about him sometimes, Dad mumbles as we drive away from Uncle’s house. Leave him be, Mom says, he’s doing the best he can. The car goes silent after that. I look back at the house. It’s further away than ever. 

Oddities 

Uncle is a little odd. That’s what everyone says anyway. Maybe it’s the way he can barely keep one foot in front of the other, or the way he smells like smoke. Most people just ignore it, or turn their heads when he walks in the room. Not Dad, though. I think his favorite pastime is to point every little thing out. Uncle’s tie isn’t straight. His hair sticks out. He’s never on time. Uncle doesn’t answer back. He sits there nailed to the chair while Dad lectures him. I have to leave the house after a while. It gets too loud. Personally, I think that Dad is just being a worrywart. Who cares that Uncle stumbles and falls like a toddler? Who cares that he smells like he fell through a chimney? Who cares if everyone wonders how he and Dad were raised in the same house? Odd isn’t necessarily bad. I like Uncle. He’s funny most of the time. I remember the time he tried to decorate his house. He opened up the curtains to let the moonlight through. Next thing you know, he ended up tangled in Christmas lights next to the tree, lying helpless on the ground like a lifesize ornament. Uncle and I were laughing the entire time, but Dad just stared with that look of his.

House 

He told me he’d do some cleaning. He’d file away the papers signed by my aunt who I haven’t seen in a year. The ones that enveloped the dining room table like impenetrable armor, hiding its aging wooden surface. He’d round up the unruly bottles that ran freely on the floor, stacking themselves in front of the windows. He’d even sweep away the family portrait shattered on the ground. 
It wasn’t always like this. Back then, Uncle’s house was neater. Cleaner. And he opened up the curtains more often. There was a great view out the window in his living room, and every once in a while the sun would shine just right and illuminate the entire room. Nowadays, the curtains are always closed. Don’t you worry, he always says, I’ll have it all squared away the next time you visit. I stare at Uncle’s distorted face in the shattered glass and wonder if he really meant it. 

Enough 

The night Grandpa died, he was in his white sheeted bed, motionless, a black knitted blanket splayed over his legs. The doctors said a lot of things to me. Things about blood and clotting and tumors. I didn’t understand. All I could focus on was Dad’s wrinkled fingers tapping erratically on the side table. Hours and hours passed, watching Grandpa’s chest rise and fall with the beeping of his heart monitor. Dad’s hands clenched tightly around his phone. Fifteen missed outgoing calls. Or more. I had lost count. Dad’s eyes squeezed together tightly. We heard Grandpa then, shifting and groaning. Dad nearly sprung out of his chair and ran straight to his side. Dad caressed Grandpa’s hand, as if it would break. Grandpa squinted. “I’m here,” Dad said. Then Grandpa called out Uncle’s name. Dad let his hand fall. Minutes later, the heart monitor beeped a long, piercing shriek, and then he was gone. Uncle arrived hours later, the blanket left cold on the bed. “Did he say anything? Before he passed?” “No.” 

What Sort of Ending Do You Wish For? 

Uncle, did it hurt when we left so suddenly? I didn’t want to, promise. Dad didn’t want to stay for much longer. When we were packing up the car, I saw you in the window. I waved to you, but you just closed the curtains shut and turned off the lights. Do you remember when I was younger? When your house was bright and your dining table was meant for food, not crumpled papers and bowls filled with sour smelly dust? When the curtains parted to show your delighted face every time we came to visit? 
The night before we left, I met you in the living room. Do you remember? You’re really forgetful most of the time. I wasn’t spying, I swear. But I could see you then. I could really see you. Your face was calm for once, speckled with stars. You opened the windows, letting the wind course through. I can still feel the chill. You turned to me then, smiling like you used to, but it didn’t reach your eyes. The window slammed shut, the curtains pulled back in. The room was dark again, and I could only stare blankly as you stumbled away, patting my head. “Go to sleep, kid,” you said. I felt like crying then. I don’t know why. I heard you collapse onto the couch, battles crashing to the ground with several cracks. I couldn’t see you anymore. 

Are Goodbyes Sometimes Hellos? 

He gives me a hug. I’m about to get into the car when he bursts out of the house and sprints towards me. I stand there, confused, until he rushes up to me, pulling me into his arms. He smells like smoke. I hug him back tightly. He tells me to eat well and try real hard in school for him, and that he—
I hear my dad yelling at me to hurry up. I sigh, hugging Uncle tighter. I can feel his smile imprinted on my shoulder.

The “End” 

Took you long enough, Dad says, scoffing as the car door locks behind me. His eyes inspect me through the mirror. I gaze out the window instead. Dad sighs long enough to fog up the car, and I hear the keys click and the engine rumble. I look back at the house, and Uncle is there behind the window. He looks at me with mirth in his eyes. I can’t look away. Then his eyes drop and his hands brush the curtains, quivering like butterflies. The curtains slide shut, and he is gone. I sigh, and slip back into my seat, vision blurring. 
Did you say goodbye? I feel Dad’s eyes in the mirror, eyebrows raised as I rub my face into my shirt. I shake my head. 
As I look back to Uncle’s house, I can’t help but notice the light peeking through the curtains as they undulate back and forth, waving goodbye. I can’t help but wave back.