Uncle Jude

Uncle Jude rarely smiles, but when he does you’d think he’d done nothing but grin all his life. I think he saves up little ration tokens of gladness over weeks and months, then cashes them all at once in return for a single blissful afternoon. This does make sense – I’d rather have one big cake on my birthday than lots of little slices throughout the year. All the same, I can’t help wondering why he doesn’t simply choose to always be happy.

Last year he came to the Summer Fair. I’m not sure why, because seeing all the children play only seemed to make him more melancholy. That was the first time I wondered why he didn’t have a family of his own, but Dad said not everybody wants one. I could tell Uncle Jude wanted one though, and I vowed to always make him feel included in ours.

Often at night he walks along nearby beaches with a torch, picking up any piece of glass or metal which catches his fancy. Nobody else much likes these peculiar keepsakes brought home to display on his mantelpiece, but he insists they’re beautiful. Once he told me to gather up scraps of joy in much the same way, finding reasons to be cheerful wherever I can and placing them in my mind’s casket. Then when I need them most, all those nice thoughts and memories will be waiting there to dispel my gloom. This didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I understood it must be important from the way he said it. I want to find out more, but haven’t seen him since.