When I was a small child, toddler size, I was always far too curious and inquisitive, bordering on rude, according to my mother. I questioned everything, even how Jesus dying on a cross for no good reason at all could save anyone! But you never know!
* * * *
There were two wing chairs in the living room of our NYC apartment. They couldn’t fly with their wings. But I bet they did secretly at night when no one was looking.
Uncle Syd used to sit on one of these chairs when he and my aunt came to visit us at our New York apartment. When Uncle Syd sat there the wing hid his face, except for his nose, too big I thought. All I could see of him was his belly. I stared. He grinned, I stared which I knew from my mother was rude, but I didn’t care and neither did Uncle Syd.
One evening he nodded and beckoned me to come sit up there with him. I did. He held me securely, his large warm hands encircling me so I wouldn’t fall off. I chatted away with all my questions and he nodded and smiled a little—just a little. He refused to give me a sip, but I’d already taste-tested his drink with my pinky—yukky.
I looked into Uncle Syd’s eyes. They were smiley and weepy both at once. How could that be? I was about to ask him when suddenly my mother and my aunt noticed me and snatched me away. I pouted. It wasn’t even bedtime.
* * * *
Uncle Syd eventually hanged himself on the showerhead and fell to his death taking the entire shower apparatus down with him. My aunt became a Roman Catholic, and all the time she hung onto a string of little beads she called a rosary, but I didn’t see any roses. I saw her mumbling odd words—over and over. No one ever again mentioned Uncle Syd, but I missed him in my heart and told God to take care of him in heaven.
I will never forget Uncle Syd’s chuckle and how his eyes could hold two kinds of tears —wells of sorrow and twinkles of humor—both at once.
