Uncle
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After the guests had left his daughter's wedding, my uncle had the leftovers scraped off all the plates. Each piece, bitten or unbitten, was slid into plastic bags. He gathered this booty of swill to store in the freezer at home. For nearly eight months he and my aunt chiseled away at this frozen reserve each day.
He went for a routine physical nine months after the festive communion.
A week later, the surgeon removed a good portion of his colon. "Colon cancer!" he announced. He brought out the ribbon of disease from surgery, dangling and dripping above a kidney-shaped dish to display. "The Chiang family!" the surgeon called out from under his mask. "Colon cancer!" he yelled.
The relatives rose, repeating, "The Chiang family," and stood before the sight, swaying to and fro, looking to see what colon cancer looked like. Some nodded; others sighed and shook their heads.
After returning home with half his entrails missing, the frozen cubes in the freezer were set to room temperature, in the same plastic bags. My uncle instructed my aunt to use the food as fertilizer on their family farm.
Shiny baby eggplants and tomatoes sprang into form in spring. "Organic vegetables. The new cure!" their doctor said.
My uncle went for a follow-up a few months later; they sent him home to rest. They said to wait and rest--to just wait. "It won't be a long wait," they assured.
After his funeral, the guests feasted in his living room, smacking their lips approvingly as they swallowed the eggplant; washing it down with tomato soup. If my uncle were there, he would have gathered their tears to make a sack of salt.
He went for a routine physical nine months after the festive communion.
A week later, the surgeon removed a good portion of his colon. "Colon cancer!" he announced. He brought out the ribbon of disease from surgery, dangling and dripping above a kidney-shaped dish to display. "The Chiang family!" the surgeon called out from under his mask. "Colon cancer!" he yelled.
The relatives rose, repeating, "The Chiang family," and stood before the sight, swaying to and fro, looking to see what colon cancer looked like. Some nodded; others sighed and shook their heads.
After returning home with half his entrails missing, the frozen cubes in the freezer were set to room temperature, in the same plastic bags. My uncle instructed my aunt to use the food as fertilizer on their family farm.
Shiny baby eggplants and tomatoes sprang into form in spring. "Organic vegetables. The new cure!" their doctor said.
My uncle went for a follow-up a few months later; they sent him home to rest. They said to wait and rest--to just wait. "It won't be a long wait," they assured.
After his funeral, the guests feasted in his living room, smacking their lips approvingly as they swallowed the eggplant; washing it down with tomato soup. If my uncle were there, he would have gathered their tears to make a sack of salt.
Each piece, bitten or unbitten, was slid into plastic bags.
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