Laila - Day 3 - Uncle Mauri - BEFORE

It was always the same. A house consumed by the smell of turkey, stuffing and baked goods for dessert. Bustling conversations of family from afar gather for this once-a-year event. Some process the treacherous drive in the snow and others complain of long delays at the airport. The one consistent. Uncle Mauri. There he sat, at the head of his long family filled table with his broad chest from decades of carpentry. Even in his sixties he was the strongest man on a crew. We settle into our seats at his table, and he lifts his wine glass as if it were a goblet from medieval times. “Merry Christmas everyone. God bless this family.” His voice thick and deep like a wrestling match announcer. Then he slides into a sermon about Jesus and the bible. On and on his voice fills the dining room from corner to corner and probably to the neighbours house as well. His arms wave with his goblet in hand. He would preach until the turkey was cold and someone had to use the washroom. I ignored the knot in my stomach and would slip more wine down my throat but I admired his passion. His dedication and commitment to the stories he crammed down our throats like a waterboard torture. But, now uncle Mauri is gone. He died last year. Sudden. Bowel cancer. No more family dinners. No more sermons that made me want to flee. I won’t miss those. But I will miss his full belly laughter and how he looked at me when I talked. He listened without interrupting. He was genuine. He cared.