My only uncle
All my uncles have died. There is one great left by marriage but I do not count him.
He was an odd man.
His wife my maternal grandmother’s sister was a simple church going Boston Irish gal. Don’t know that she ever worked after marriage.
That Aunt was kind, with anxious eyes and nervous laughter and a Boston accent that had a strange sweetness to it.
When my mother’s wake had ended, this aunt stood with me in front of my mother’s still open casket as I stood there looking down on her. Touching her hands. Kissing her forehead as if she were merely asleep,
Irish — they usually guard the body overnight. She was offering to stay, asking who would.
Her son, my cousin looked at me and shook his head to have me put her off. I looked at him over her head and nodded for him not to worry.
“Aunty, you don’t have to worry, Mum’s husband has it all sorted with the funeral home. She will be fine and they bring her to st. Greg’s in Dorchester tomorrow. I promise everything is in good order.”
“You should go now.”
She smiled up at me.
“Okay dahlin.”
Reaching up her hand to smooth my hair.
