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WHERE MY UNCLE REALLY IS

My Uncle, a tall voluble man with a neatly trimmed mustache, was  full of jokes he told in Greek, Italian, Yiddish accents. He was easy to anger too—the quiet seething kind. But mostly he enjoyed his pipe, a glass of Scotch and a good meal with his family. He urged things he was throwing away on his relatives who gave in and took them even though they didn’t want them either.  

Sadly, he had a heart attack in his late 50s and died soon after. His casket was open before the funeral, and never having seen a corpse, I was squeamish so I zigzagged back and forth across the room until I got close enough to take a look. The body was my uncle’s after all, but I wondered, where was that vibrant personality? Then I closed my eyes and pictured him once again telling the joke about the apoo and pineappoo pie, that made him laugh more than the rest of us.

I stood there for a moment then walked away—my real uncle was elsewhere.