My Favorite Uncle

My summer as an eight year old was spent with an unselfish guardian,

a patron of unconditional love,

a curly haired, ever-grinning uncle thirteen years my elder.

One day that summer he was reluctant to take me to the park.

He guided me through the hall in front of my Grandfather with immeasurable

patience as I repeatedly asked why,

until the door was shut and he took off his sunglasses to reveal a black eye.

The only light that came into the room was through bleak grey blinds,

and the cement walls encased the prison that overpowered us,

with the knowledge that my Uncle was in trouble.

I remember looking through a magazine as we hid

and finding an advertisement of a women diving into a waterless pool.

That winter one day at the park we stood ten feet apart from each other,

close to the horseshoes and next to the hill that so many times I’d roll down care

freely.

A “Caution” sign was chained to the wire fence,

but I paid no attention.

Like two bulls we charged towards each other,

and my uncle picked me up, slipped on the ice, dropped me on my head,

and crumpled to the ground,

as would my trust in him as soon as my head would stop throbbing.

“Promise you won’t be mad at me,”

he repeated until it ruptured my heart.

He carried me over his shoulder like a sack of gold

until we reached havoc and I went to the hospital.

Days later I lay in bed with an IV stuck in my arm, as to supply me patience

for when my uncle would visit me.

When I saw him I knew I couldn’t stay mad at a kindred spirit,

and my laughter filled the hospital halls

and his smile stretched from wall to wall

and that summer we went swimming instead of visiting the park.