Things I'll Remember

It’s almost 3:00 a.m. and I’m thinking about my uncle’s funeral that I'll attend today. Uncle Dennis died this week of a massive stroke and hemorrhage to the brain. He was a mysterious saxophone player and one of the dark horses of my family, but loved nonetheless. He always repeated the first couple of phrases before he completed a sentence: “Looka here, looka here, I haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up, what’s up?” “Now, that ain’t, that ain’t right.”

When I was about seven years old, he called my grandmother’s house and I picked up the phone. I didn’t hear anyone on the other end, so I decided to try out some of the new curse words I’d heard. I said, “M-F, don’t f—ckin play on the phone! I’ll whip yo M-F ass!” and hung up. When the phone rang again, I was poised to spray a cacophony of many more creative epitaphs, just like the big kids on my block. The voice on the other end said, “This is Dennis, and that was me on the phone . . . .” [He didn't repeat himself that day.]

I got dizzy. Fear dropped to my young toes, causing them to curl and cramp. Whatever he said scared the heck out of me for a while, because I blocked it out of my memory and buried the shame. For many years after that, I’d get butterflies in my stomach when I saw him. I had lost face, and my innocence was forever shattered in his eyes. Now, I wish that I had reminded him of that day, so that we could have laughed about it. I know that we would laugh about it now.