I do not know if he lived but like the monsters under my bed, he was real enough to touch me. His name was Borach to me. He used to keep carp in the bathtub. He used to make sauerkraut in the closet. I don’t know if he did that but it happened. He sneezed so hard that it shot him into the next Passover. I don’t know if he could walk but he followed me. Uncle Borach is my uncle and yet still was never there.
As you reach the end of the hallway, you notice someone behind you. They have their hands full, and they appear to be in a good mood. They are six feet away, and there is no one following them.
There we stood, my brother and I, on the mighty cliffs of Stop & Shop, staring down upon our vast kingdom that was Route 7 and the subjects of the parking lot.
My name is silence. The silence of the doctor as he walked in. The silence as they understood he would not be born. The silence of the phone line as she learned she was not a grandmother. The silence of the ride home.
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