‘some piece of work’

Christmas day was a day like those French & German soldiers had laying down their arms to play soccer. My father and I called a peace. Everything was beautiful. The food and wine with my mother getting tipsy on the cocktails. It was all so perfect. One year, my Uncle Roy came to share Christmas with us. He was let out for the day from the mental institution.  He sat at one end, and my father at the other. Nothing much was said, and when the time came for my mother to take him home, our father, after taking a long thoughtful drag on his Corona cigar, said, ‘you know I think he’s faking it’, my father was some piece of work.



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