Why My Uncle Hates the Color Blue
My Uncle Richard was laying on what his wife told him was his "death bed for sure." I didn't spend a lot of time with him, just holidays, but he was my dad's only brother. He said, "Hit the fan. You feel that breeze?"
"Yeah, chilly."
"That's what dying feels like."
"Nah," I stretched my hand up. "That's just what being in shorts and a singlet with the fan on feels like."
"You're such a cunt, just listen. Have you ever picked up a cup with condensation on the side? Your hand just dies, son, just numbs up. What are you when you die? Numb as you can be!" He sat up. "I hate the color blue. It's so cold."
I looked down at his pink hospital gown, then at the thermostat at 87 degrees. It wasn't like he was going senile or anything; he remembers everything, and he's always hated the color blue. "You're not dying."
"I didn't say I was."
"Yeah, chilly."
"That's what dying feels like."
"Nah," I stretched my hand up. "That's just what being in shorts and a singlet with the fan on feels like."
"You're such a cunt, just listen. Have you ever picked up a cup with condensation on the side? Your hand just dies, son, just numbs up. What are you when you die? Numb as you can be!" He sat up. "I hate the color blue. It's so cold."
I looked down at his pink hospital gown, then at the thermostat at 87 degrees. It wasn't like he was going senile or anything; he remembers everything, and he's always hated the color blue. "You're not dying."
"I didn't say I was."