Last Wish of Uncle Joe

It's important to honor the wishes of your loved ones.

“Uncle Joe, you’re not going to die,” Hank said, clutching the old man’s hands compassionately. “It’s just an infection. You’ve been through worse. You’ll get better soon.”

            Uncle Joe coughed, sounding feeble. “Now, Sonny, don’t you get sad ‘cuz old Uncle Joe done kicked the bucket. I’ve had a good run. Don’t feel bad that I’m going. It’s my time.”

            Tears forming in his eyes, Hank nodded, trying to show that he understood. It was all so sudden and close and distant at the same time, if that made any sense, he thought. Here his Uncle was, lying in bed with raspy breath, barely able to move, but it seemed as though he would never really be gone. All the memories of playing ball in the park, going fishing, the driving lessons... Uncle Joe had been such a strong and present figure throughout all of his life. It seemed impossible for something like that to just die.

            “Listen close, Sonny,” Uncle Joe whispered, interrupting Hank’s train of thought.

            “When I’m dead and buried, I want you to wait three full days, until the night of the full moon. Dress all in black, and take a black lit candle to the backyard. Sing the entirety of the Beatles’ song Eight Days a Week, turn around three times, and dig under the daffodils by my windowsill. You got that? Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody.”

            Hank stared. “I… What? Uncle Joe…?”

            But the rest of the family joined them at that point, and Hank’s beloved Uncle fell silent about his strange instructions, though he fixed Hank with a strange and sincere glare.

            Uncle Joe passed away some days after that. Hank watched as they took his cremated remains and spread them across the garden, where he spent so much of his time. And, perhaps, kept some great secret? Hank became more and more curious, and couldn’t help but keep eyeing the daffodils during the funeral service. That night, still plagued by confusion and doubt, Hank made a decision. He would honor his Uncle’s last wish.

            Three days later, Hank crept through the backyard with a black robe, carrying the candle. He set it down on the ground and, in as hushed of a voice as he could, sang Eight Days a Week, spun around in a circle three times, and started to dig.

            To his surprise, his shovel almost immediately hit a metal object buried in the soil. Hank pulled it out and found a rusted tin box. With shaking hands he pried it open, the dark metal glinting in the candlelight, and found a small note lying in the bottom. He crouched there in the empty backyard and read it.

            I faked my death and stole your social security. See ya pansy

                        -Uncle Joe

            Hank’s mouth fell open. “Motherfu-”

            THE END

Reviews

[Indra's Child]

What a f*****g a*****e....
Think I'm binging your stories.
You're a damn good writer... You should do this for a living.

[Delmar Cooper]

Like the method: Cooper's guess as to what the method is: "surprise the reader with a big, contrary, ending" We expect a rabbit and a Tasmanian devil comes out of the hat. Bullwinkle did that in the R&B show, back in the day. Waayback, Sherman. Ah well, you had to be there I guess.