He had always regarded that particular uncle as a nasty piece of work.
He had been a man that he simply didn’t like. He had been a crude man with an overpowering presence. He was a brute; a wealthy brute. He obviously didn’t like kids. He had none of his own. He had never married. He owned a great deal of property in the city. All of this had meant that for many he had been regarded as some sort of special relative, but not for the eight-year-old boy who tried to hide whenever he knew the man was about to visit. He would be rough with him and nobody complained. As a boy, he had never liked watching grownups treat him with the respect he didn’t deserve. His riches seemed to make him welcome wherever he went. To a degree, even his own parents had accepted his oafish behaviour.
On one of these unwanted visits the man had pressed a fifty dollar note into his hand with far more force than necessary. Nobody seemed to notice the discomfort he felt, only the impressive value of the gift. This, he had scrunched into a tight little ball and put in an oddments shoebox he kept under his bed. At that young age he had decided that he wouldn’t’ spend it, because it had no value for him. It, like the man, was a burden.
Now, as a teenager a decade later, with the uncle’s passing away and having attended the funeral service that day, he stands at the back of the garden. It is late at night. His family is tucked up in bed. The small oil drum used to burn off garden rubbish sits behind the shed. It only has a thin layer of ash in the bottom. From his pocket he takes out the ball of paper. He opens it up to its original shape. He strikes a match. The corner catches and it burns almost to his fingertips. He lets it fall and watches the final moments of its destruction.
He stands for several long minutes, considering the significance of his private ritual. He would not share it. He thought about the man who had given him the note. He wondered if there were others that would understand. Regardless, he was resolute in his conclusion that whether others shared his view of it or not was entirely irrelevant.
He went to bed that night knowing that a chapter had been closed.