UNCLE VICK

One day, I received a letter. It was an invitation to work in a faraway city as a writer. It was a chance of a lifetime to finally step out of the shadows and into the light and become a respected poet. I showed the letter to Uncle Vick, my heart pounding with excitement and trepidation. He took the letter, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering. He looked at me, his eyes filled with pride.

“You should go, Billy,” he said, his voice weak but firm. “You need to go. This is your chance.”

I hesitated. Leaving uncle Vick felt like severing a vital connection.

“But what about you?” I asked. “Who will take care of you?”

He smiled, a gentle, reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, Billy. I always am. This is your time. Go, and let your spirit soar.”

And so I went. I left the place that had nurtured me, the place where the seed of love had been planted. My new home was a whirlwind of readings, workshops, and conversations. I met poets and writers from all over the world, each with their own unique voice, their own story to tell. I felt a sense of belonging, a connection to something larger than myself. My poems were well-received. People connected with the raw honesty of my words, the vulnerability of my voice. I felt validated, seen, heard. But even as I basked in the glow of recognition, my thoughts kept returning to Uncle Vick, to the corner house on Morross Street. I missed his quiet presence, his gentle wisdom. I missed the simple joys of our life together.

When vacation time came up, I rushed back home, eager to see my uncle. The house looked older, more dilapidated than I remembered. The garden was even more overgrown, the weeds threatening to engulf the entire structure. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of old books and dust filled my nostrils.

“Uncle Vick?” I called out, my voice echoing through the silent house.

There was no response.

I walked through the house, searching for him. I found him in the living room, sitting in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap.

He was asleep. Or so I thought.

I knelt beside him, gently shaking his shoulder.

He didn’t stir.

His skin was cold. A heavy shroud of dread covered me.

The book in his lap was a photo collection of us fishing.