… or bigger. If he was really a house someone from the city would hammer a note into his forehead saying he was slated for demolition and to please keep out. He’s pretty much a disease lab. His tongue is either swollen or it sounds like he’s eating his tongue. He fills his pants. He can still walk but only so fast that if you don’t stop him he’ll walk right into the cupboards. He’s like a remote control man and someone is having fun with the controls. I can’t really understand him but what he’s saying sounds like “I wish I was dead.”
My giant uncle reminds me of me. At Christmas they say hi but then they wheel me into a corner and ignore me. After maybe an hour they deposit my giant uncle in another corner, in an armchair, and we just sit there staring at each other. Once in a while my auntie will come into the room to scream “Enough juice!” or “Those aren’t the red pills!” Her treatment of him is pretty wretched, though it’s not like anyone says anything. Not even when she says, “I’d love to play this hand, but I have to change his stupid diaper,” and flings herself out of the kitchen. And he is so not beyond being able to hear and understand her, but he is definitely so beyond crying anymore. Me too.
It’s just sad.
