The memories in which he existed are continuing to fade in my recollection, but the remembrances impede from time to time, and overshadow any doubt or guilt one would experience from admitting such strong memories are in fact fading from their cognition.

     Saturday afternoon’s were accompanied with communication that was nonverbal.  A tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt (assumedly with the subsequent dancing bears), and a cracked tooth that had not been of bother, but yet a concern for later. His presence entering the car and me sluggishly (and introvertedly) disappearing into the backseat to avoid being elbow-bumped.

     Where to? Indeed, countless hours were spent with me cowering in a book, whilst my biological father and my Uncle William casually sat and fished. In this, he found complacency. I introspectively did as well.

     It had only been in my late-teenage years that I had come to realize how intrinsic of a soul my uncle was. How appreciative I had been when he was the nonchalant uncle when extended family members were (to say it bluntly) unappreciative of my bisexual identity. And how, soon after, I was treated with the same respect I had experienced hours prior to my identity being discussed during a (not so festive) Christmas-Eve dinner.

    I learned of the greats. Despite me being far too young to even comprehend Homer’s Moby Dick, nor the attention span, during fishing trips, he would intermittently ask “Got to reading Moby Dick?”. Albeit the reply always being a solemn ‘no’, most likely with my head still buried behind a YA book, he had never lost sight of my potential. Nor did I.

I had also been immersed in a passage of the illustrious Big League Chew gum, some days of which were accompanied by fireworks, and others, of the taciturn and waiting for a fishing rod to bob. All of which make me wonder if my heart has the same cadence. How his haphazardly stalled but mine is still beating.

I found myself sitting at an altar, close-but-not to-close from extended family members. His absence created a need for closeness, but the closeness felt ingenuine. Sad gazes turned to smiles upon leaving the funeral home, with emotions being concealed for the man who helped raise me. I sat stoic, unaware of the impact that caused masses to accompany the service. Nevertheless, I was not surprised. As his childhood friends, of which was my father, hoisted him out of the funeral service, I grasped the fragility of time and more importantly, the lack thereof. 

Months had passed between when I had last seen him. Illnesses, school, divorce, caused an unintentional rift. Regardless, my appreciation never faded. My appreciation for hot-chocolate on Saturday mornings, a smile showcasing a recently fixed broken tooth, and an orange tabby cat that never ceased to show her appreciation via the dragging and subsequent dropping of a dead mouse, in the pursuit of  validation, a snack for later, or a combination of the latter.

     Somewhere there are cascades of Big League Chew, sitting adjacent fishing rods with their owners tentatively waiting for them to bob. My memories are as scattered as the ash he became, but in that, I found truth.

Vanessa Cerasulo is an aspiring writer and special education teacher who is published in the Wingless Dreamer and the Hemetera Editor.  She aspires to teach her students the power of the written word and creative expression. It is through showing persons the power their words hold, that we can create a more caring and empathic world. In her piece, "The Duality of Big League Chew and a Fishing Rod", Vanessa Cerasulo attempts to show the heart of creative nonfiction - the portrayal of blunt truth and honesty, character, and giving voice for notable causes/one's beliefs. Vanessa shows how we can be like Will, and through the power of promoting literature and being our best intrinsic selves, our potential will never fade. Vanessa can be found on (vcer2344.wixsite.com).