Uncle Steve

“Maybe strange snow is better snow, boys. Are you afraid of innovation?”

Uncle Steve passed me the water bottle. It was early evening, and the twilight’s gloaming lit his dirty lenses and made his eyes invisible for a moment.

Perhaps he was right. The snow looked, not tainted exactly, but wrong, somehow. Marty threw another log onto our fire. A cat glared at me as it slipped between bags of trash, hunting one of the enormous rats we had simply learned to live with. Drones swarmed through the fading sky, paused over our heads for a moment and raced toward the towers on the horizon. I could smell something cooking on our neighbors’ fire. Spices were hard to come by, so there was something crude and direct about that smell—improvised.

“He told us things would have to change, didn’t he boys? I knew he deserved my vote. Sure, it was our last election. But you know it was our best, don’t you?!” Uncle Steve was warming up. Once he shifted from water to the pungent homebrew in the old jug sitting in the snow next to him, things would get more colorful, and probably a bit crazy. Entertainment was scarce, so the neighbors would probably creep over to listen after a while.

“He drained that swamp, didn’t he? Sure, I lost my leg in the war, but greatness is only achieved through sacrifice, isn’t it, boys?! The snow is new, just like life--that’s what he gave us!” Uncle Steve smiled.