I remember memories.
And memories of memories.
And memories of what I was told long ago.
I remember all of us sledding winters at my uncle Sean’s house and how warm and cozy those memories feel.
I remember when my mother worked at his office.
I remember sitting at the office kitchen table, or at the secretary’s desk, coloring.
I liked her.
I remember Mark, his business partner.
And Aiden, the Irishman.
And I remember being told that my uncle started out in gypsum – which to me sounded like gypsy – and I was told it was a building material. And that he traded also in uranium, and that it was radioactive. It sounded cool, to a small child.
I remember asking about uranium years later, did he still trade the radioactive stuff? No, no longer, I was brushed off.
I always wondered what anyone wanted it for. I was a curious child.
Decades later, the gears clicked.
The timeline matched.
The years matched.
What year did he start his company?
What year did the USSR fall?
What other purpose could it possibly have had?
Did he stop trading it? Or did someone regret telling me when I was very small?
Maybe it was used for a nuclear power plant.
Green energy and all that – saving the planet.
Maybe not.
I’ll never know.
Laughs and Lobotomies 