Treasure Chest
I must have asked my uncle about that chest a thousand times. He said it contained the bones of a leprechaun saint, or a pair of nylons once worn by Marilyn Monroe, or the silver lining of a cloud, or the best ham sandwich of 1953, but he never told me the truth. It was a treasure chest, and I was sure it held diamonds or emeralds he had picked up during the war.
And it was mine. I deserved it. Who spotted the cancer on the back of his neck, and sent him to the doctor? Who sent him to the nursing home, and held the bucket when he couldn’t keep anything down? His own children pretended nothing was wrong. My cousin Elizabeth told him he would live forever, and shut her eyes to his approaching death. But I didn’t. I was the only one who was really there for him. The rest of the family came around to play games or sing songs. I was the one who took care of him.
But, dammit, Uncle Rubin liked to jerk me around.