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 farther away than ever.
Uncle is a little odd. That’s what everyone says, anyway. Maybe it’s the way he often loses his balance or how he always smells like smoke. Most people ignore it. Not Dad, though. He loves pointing out every little thing. Uncle’s never on time. His tie isn’t straight. And every time, Uncle sits nailed to his chair while Dad lectures him. I think Dad is just being a worrywart. I like Uncle. Who cares that he stumbles like a toddler? Who cares if he smells like he fell down a chimney? Who cares if everyone wonders how he and Dad were raised in the same house? Odd isn’t necessarily bad.
I remember when Uncle tried to decorate his house. He opened 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 life-size ornament. Uncle and I were laughing the entire time, but Dad just stared with that look of his.
