I wanted to come before the sale.  Before Uncle Tom’s spirit was left a guest in his house. The room is void now. The empty void that welcomed the silence free of Tom’s barbs. His empty chair in his empty house.  Restless spirits wandered my Uncle’s farmhouse. I wondered if Tom’s spirit joined the others or wandered alone. 

Uncle Tom did not want to die, but karma caught the tail of his coat. Cancer. The ultimate equalizer. Tom’s bravado was eaten by cancer along with his eyes. God’s interesting choice to take Tom’s vision; Uncle Tom who thought his view was always correct, efficient. Tom was efficient but not correct. Stop it! Don’t do that in my home! Get off! Clean that! But those were decorations to the biting remarks not made but shouted from his eyes “you’re less, you’re less, you’re small”. Uncle Tom’s words cut through my spirit like a viscous teenage joke, and I was small. 

I didn’t feel his spirit in his room. It was empty of feeling. The chair looked at me. Take me the chair said. Take me away cried the chair. I could not. The chair had become one with the house and Uncle Tom. No. I’m not small Uncle Tom. 

No I don’t want your chair, your karma or memory. 

I left. 

I heard the chair cry. 


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