It was occurred to me, like newfangled breakfast Os on a bowl, the deep and lasting sudden death of mine uncle, Tom. He came into this world like many through a womb, dying by death in a crucible of Jim Beans and drought. On a Tuesday.

But it wasn’t the pasta the night he died (dry, though it tasted like dust), it wasn’t the washing of the dish which cricked his ever-crooked back too notches too far. But the Jim Beam which lurked in the ash tray; out of glasses, he drank on. Until the movie stars clogged the bevel screen of his T-V and he napped in crookedness another day because he forgot his glasses because he was out of glasses.

But not another one. Because, as I said before, if you were listening, he died. And I am tragically sad over the loss of it. I missed my breakfast. But I get his TV.