My uncle, he saw faces. In clouds, tree trunks, his oatmeal. At first he’d joke around about having a screw loose, or losing his marbles and we’d pretend to look for them under couch, or ask him “Philips or Robertson.”

He’d explain how he was tired or needed new glasses, or maybe even had to slow down on the drinking. Whenever he said that last one, he’d shake his empty can.

But then, he started saying how the faces were talking to him. Warning him. Of what we asked, but his eyes would just go big and he wouldn’t answer.


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