A Portrait... Genevieve Cullen

Art occupied every wall, and every flat surface carried a vase of another shape or size. Books nearly spilled out of a short glass case, and those that couldn’t fit were piled under the armoire. My uncle played a jaunty tune on the piano, frequently pausing to sputter a gag-like noise, sticking his tongue out in frustration. With the exception of occasional mistakes, his fingers danced across the piano, each fleeting note springing from the keys.

Sitting in a tufted pink chair, in the belly of my uncle’s sequestered existence, I was catching a glimpse into a life so different from our own. Unsentimental in nature, my sisters and I were not used to seeing so much in such a small room. The hodgepodge of mismatched items made it look as if he had been included in the will of every person in the small Pennsylvania town born before 1950. In fact, one could find him at the local cemetery every Sunday morning putting flowers on graves of people he never knew.

We visited his apartment every year, sat in the same chairs, were surrounded by the same artwork, listened to the same tunes. The only thing that seemed to change was the increased pity I felt every time I sat in the pink chair, watching him uncomfortably accept our applause.

It didn’t take much meticulous observation to notice how he seemed to have less respect for the living than things that had never lived or had long since died. — Genevieve Cullen