My Uncle John

My uncle John, we would sit at the mahogany table every Saturday night. It was a ritual, a very important one that I treasured the most. We would sit there and polish our shoes.

He always told me a story, a story only I would understand, one that he could only tell me. He told his story with a passion I had never heard before, "all you could here were the brushes scraping the battered old boots, like a race car tires screeching along the track".

It was only short, but thats was what intrigued me to know more.

He always stared into the polished boot as if he was remembering his navel days.

He only used a dab of polish, like an artist used paint. He was an artist, he was an artist of black and brown polish. Ready to use it everyday...

Dedicated to my teacher mr Gual, you are the best <3