My uncle Maury has been dead for close to sixty years and yet I can
still picture him in my mind—at the moment he’s smoking a pipe
and tapping the ashes into an ashtray on the table.
My mother said on numerous occasions that he was truly great—
a self-made man who escaped from a war-torn country, came to ours
with nothing, learned English, worked, and put himself through school
to become a doctor—and a more dedicated doctor one could never find.
I remember visiting him, my aunt, and cousins in a suburb of Detroit—
his presence having an impact on me based on what my mother had said.
After he passed away, she seemed to extol his virtues even more,
expressing that there were very few in the world like him. The only
others to compare were her own mother and father whom she referred to
as the kindest, most loving people who ever lived.
And she’d say it as if there was no greater truth. . .
Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer/percussionist, and a writer of poetry, flash-fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Uppagus, New English Review, Avalon Literary Review, The Broken Teacup, Water Your Cellphone and many others.
