My Uncle

For three days after his operation, my uncle lay on my grandmother's couch. He'd brought sun glasses and a Walkman with him and lay silent and motionless for hours on end. No one could tell if he was asleep; no one wanted to disturb his rest. My grandmother hummed around him. At night she turned the lights off and he sank into obscurity, never lifting those sun glasses. A few times he came to the table to eat, tell stories, entertain us, and quickly return to his resting spot on the dull leather couch. When I visited my grandmother it took me a couple minutes to notice him. It was more than an hour before he noticed me, calling to me without turning his head. Everything was going well, I told him. He made a joke and fell silent again. The headphones projected stories onto the lenses of his glasses and he watched patiently like a well-mannered boy trapped inside a theater. After three days he took the glasses off, the door was opened and he left. I haven't seen him since.