What I buried with the Food

My uncle Nash was always sweet to me and my mom. He was my father’s older brother, though only by a couple of years. He died ten years ago. The doctors refused to operate on him. “He’s already lost,” they said. He had a heart attack in bed at the crack of dawn. I wish I had spoken to him more. I wish I had kept him more company. I’d meet him on the bus from school. Chat a little. then he’d be off to wander. He loved it.

He was sick, you see. Schizophrenia, and surely other things too. He lived with my grandmother. She died just a few weeks ago, and now I keep thinking of him. People used to call him Lupin behind his back, you know, the one from Harry Potter. Werewolf? He was huge and skinny, smoked a lot, a bit hunched from his height, and always carried himself stoically, arms crossed like a living statue. He walked alone most of the time and seemed to enjoy it. People found him creepy. And looks-wise, I wouldn’t blame them. But there was always more to him. Always.

I keep going back to the first summer I spent with them. My parents wanted a vacation from me, so I stayed there for three weeks. I was nine or ten, maybe. I remember hating it, not because of him, but because of her. My grandmother. I could only compare her to a fiend. She never liked me, and it showed. I was a normal kid, not much trouble, but she always complained and always took others’ sides against mine. She hoarded treats for herself and never shared. “Sweetie, could you go to the store and get some things for me? I left a list. I wouldn’t trust Nash with it,” she’d say, handing me the exact amount of money for her items. Never a dime extra. It was all for her. I found it strange that my parents had to leave money for her, but then I understood: she wouldn’t spend a nickel on me or her son. Nothing at all. The worst was her infamous “Grandma’s Little Juice.” The gall. Tricking kids into thinking they were getting iced tea, only to hand us tap water with a wicked little laugh. She kept the iced tea for herself. She even re-gifted me chocolates I’d given her over the years. Expired. Awful woman? I guess.

Grandma was never easy to love. Her words could cut, her silence bruised, and I spent years wishing for distance, but above all, acceptance. When the funeral came and the pews sat mostly empty, something inside me twisted. For all her sharp edges, she was still ours. Still a life that mattered. I kept thinking I could have called more, visited more, tried harder. Watching the few who came bow their heads, I felt a strange ache, not just for her absence, but for the loneliness that followed her even into the ground and for the part of me that let it happen. Even though she brought it upon herself, I could not change her. Not until the end. And yet, as I stood there, my mind wandered back to that summer, to the kitchen where her sharpness was loudest.

Food was always an issue, three people eating, food for two, and surprisingly one would stay hungry. How dare you take a little extra. She’d snatch it back and make you eat what she gave, mouth shut. Meals were miserable. My uncle was a night owl, fueling the Lupin rumors, and woke up late, usually to her screaming and pan-clanking. You could see he hated it. He’d rasp in a childlike voice, “Shut up, shut up, who cares!” Then he’d sit next to me, barely acknowledging my existence, while the complaining continued until the meal ended.

One day, the fighting was worse than usual. I froze, sensing something terrible. I’d heard stories about uncle Nash but never cared. Until that day. He shouted so loud I covered my ears. I couldn’t process the words. I closed my eyes to shut it all out. When I opened them, there he was. Sitting again, looking at me with wild deadly eyes, tongue out like a mischievous child. It terrified me. I said nothing, just kept eating, shoving food down as if I could bury the moment forever.

Years later, I learned the truth: my grandmother never properly medicated him. She didn’t want to spend the money. He was left to his own devices until he was fifty, when he finally got help. But not enough. We tried to keep him company, my mom and I. I felt bad for him, but never pity, nothing about him screamed pity. He seemed satisfied with his life, maybe even content. But his mother, MY grandmother, pushed my buttons. Still, I remember the small things: sneaking chocolate into his pockets when he visited, how he never smoked in our house, never even asked. He respected my mom so much, maybe because she treated him like the normal person he was.

When he died, I felt it deeply. That moment at the dining table came back, as if I hadn’t buried it enough. After all this time, it still scared me. But now I see it differently. That strange gesture, those wild eyes. They weren’t evil. They were his attempt to break through, to make me laugh, to remind me that life wasn’t just pain. All of this in his own imperfect caring way. I couldn’t see it then, but I do now. And in that realization, the memory softens, turning terror into tenderness. An unbelievable act of care. A sick man trying to save a child from a flawed mother who valued herself above others. How deeply I wronged his memory. I loved him so, yet that moment branded me with fear. Now I can honor him fully. What a great man. I am relieved. I’ll keep this story to myself. A moment shared between us, and only us, for eternity.