by Salvatore Difalco
Yeah, so I remember the person by using them in a story. Like my Uncle Frank. He was a cool man. I miss him.
“Sammy, what are you doing?”
“Hey, Uncle Frank.”
I kiss both his cheeks. He smells like Brut cologne, something he wore when I was a child.
“Are you still in school?”
“Haha, no Uncle Frank. I finished a long time ago.”
“Do you still visit your mother?”
“Of course I do.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it.
“I remember everything, Uncle Frank. I’ll never forget you.”
“Thank you, Sammy. You’ve been a good nephew. Not always the most honest—”
“Come on, Sammy. We always knew what you were.”
Uncle Frank lights a cigarette with a match. He heats the filter end with the match flame, then blows out the match. I can smell the sulphur. He purses his lips and pulls on the cigarette.
“Still smoking, eh?”
He smiles and shrugs. “It was my only vice.”
“That and a little poker.”
“I liked poker. I was never good but I liked it.”
“I still play.”
“That’s good, Sammy. Okay, it’s time for me to go.”
“What is it?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Sammy. It’s okay over there. No worries.”
A car horn blares outside. I look up from my desk with tears in my eyes. I hate the world sometimes.
Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online formats. He splits his time between Toronto and Palermo, Sicily.