Dear old Uncle Bob

In the middle of Ohio, the middle of nowhere, with nothing, nobody, is a ramshackle wooden house my Uncle Bob built.

It's a great house. Really, it is. I love living here, ever since Uncle Bob passed it on to me in his will.

It's old, and it's coming apart, and parts are broken, but it's still nice. Not really quiet, though. He still talks a lot. 

But I'm okay with that. We've always gotten on just fine.

Except that his anniversary's coming up. Fourth of July. 

He accidentally set himself on fire. Which wouldn't have killed him, if he hadn't stumbled onto the fireworks and messed them all up.

What a family reunion turned funeral that was! 

At least, everyone joked, they were already out here, so they wouldn't need to come back out for a good while.

Right. Well, I thought they were joking. But now that it's just me living here, nobody's coming out for celebrations or fireworks or cards or anything.

It's just me and Uncle Bob, hanging out, drinking beer, planning the fireworks. I'm doing the most of planning, though. He keeps joking about how it's my turn, this time.

I laugh, but I don't think it's funny. Much as I love it here, I want to leave at some point.

But don't tell Uncle Bob that.

He might kill me for real.