Short published by Wigleaf. |
When I was eight years old, my father used to pal around with a guy we called Uncle Oz. He might have been somebody’s uncle but he wasn’t mine. My uncle wouldn’t have sneered behind a smoky mustache. He wouldn’t have kept a grizzled beard. Nor would he have worn a Hawaiian shirt like the one Uncle Oz was wearing on the afternoon he took Dad and me to watch the Miami Dolphins play.