pressing on his stomach, his eyes shut, his mouth contorted in pain. “Ahhhhh, God,” he would moan. “Ahhhhhh, Jesus!”
The rest of us—my aunt, his two young sons, me—stood there, silently, cleaning the plates, averting our eyes.
It was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life.
One night in May, my uncle and I sat on the balcony of his apartment. It was breezy and warm.
He looked out toward the horizon and said, through gritted teeth,
that he wouldn't be around to see his kids into the next school year.
He asked if I would look after them. I told him not to talk that way. He stared at me sadly. He died a few weeks later.
After the funeral, my life changed. I felt as if time were suddenly precious, water going down an open drain, and I could not move quickly enough.
No more playing music at half-empty night clubs. No more writing songs in my apartment, songs that no one would hear.
I returned to school. I earned a master's degree in journalism and took the first job offered, as a sports writer.
Instead of chasing my own fame, I wrote about famous athletes chasing theirs.
I worked for newspapers and freelanced for magazines. I worked at a pace that knew no hours, no limits.
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