Uncle Bobby was my mom’s brother. He and my dad never got along. I can say the same about him and Aunt Faye. I kinda liked him at first. He always brought me and Sissy presents. Fishing pole, flags, and sometimes candy. He once caught me playing teddy bear school with Sissy. And then smacked me real good. I cried and he hit me again. Got madder. And then some more. Said a lotta mean things. Called me queer, said just like my father. Daddy was gone and couldn’t defend himself. And me neither.

Mom said Uncle Bobby didn’t always mean what he said. But she seemed okay with my whuppings. Still, Aunt Faye said enough was enough. Kicked him out. We didn’t see him for a few years but he did call mom sometimes.

Uncle Bobby killed himself 8 days after the insurrection. January 14th. He told us he was there. In Pelosi’s office. Even peed on her chair. Mainly the seat. That’s what he said. Sissy and me believed him.

Told mom he couldn’t face the new regime. Socialist pussies. Faggots. Un-Americans! Their allegiance was to a new order and a false prophet. Their God was dark. A homosexual. Didn’t believe in the good book! Might even be aliens. He felt helpless. Hopeless. Drinking helped with the pain. And television. He shot his guns. When he wasn’t cleaning them.

We didn’t see him much after Aunt Faye divorced him. That was 4 years ago. Her new husband’s kinda nice. He was at the riot, too. My sister and I wondered if they may have crossed paths there. Without even knowing.

Uncle Bobby said that he was a real American. Everything he did was simply justice. We all need to man up. Fight! But he can’t fight anymore. He’s dead. Sissy and I don’t think he meant to do it. No one will ever really know. I guess I’m not sure. But I’m not sad. Maybe his dying was justice. Sissy doesn’t understand the word but said it was. Somehow.