Every year, we got together for our family fishing trip/reunion. We’d drive out of town to these cottages my family had owned since before I came along. It had a river right down the way where we’d fish… or try to fish, as we never really caught much. There’d be about twenty of us—brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, second cousins—carrying along, having a good time, laughing. Everyone was always laughing.

My uncle Dwayne was my favorite of the uncles. He’d always horse around with me. He used to apply pressure to my scalp with his fingertips and say, “Needles to the head!” That got me every time. I remember this Marlboro labeled thermos he used to carry around and how proud he was of it.

“Got it for free,” he said.

“Only took me a hundred packs.”

He must have told that story a thousand times.

His diet consisted of coffee from that thermos and cigarettes, but besides an occasional cough, he seemed to be doing pretty good. I’d sit there with him down at the water’s edge, with my candy cigarettes and lifeless fishing pole. It wasn’t about catching fish, because we never did. It was about hanging out with Dwayne. When my parents weren’t around, he’d sneak me some of his coffee. He was just . . . cool.

“Don’t you tell em’.” He told me.

“I won’t.”

“Y’all boys come eat!” We heard my mom from up the hill.

“I’ll carry it!” I grabbed the Marlboro thermos. My uncle Dwayne smiled, and a sense of pride rushed over me. We walked up to the cottages.

At night, Dwayne would entertain us with his unlimited joke arsenal.

“You heard the one about the guy and the bear?”

They were always about the guy and some zoo animal. I remember thinking about how funny the jokes were back then. Me and my cousins would be rolling, trying to catch our breath from the laughing fits. Thinking back now, I guess the jokes weren’t really all that funny.

Seeing Uncle Dwayne in the hospital bed was a bizarre thing for me. Our family was gathered around in this cramped room and everyone was laughing and talking about old times. Meanwhile, he’s laid up in bed with tubes and hoses going in and coming out of him. He still had that cough, but only louder.

“Come here, ugly.” He called me over to the bed.

“Needles to the (cough, cough) head!” he placed his fingers, now more boney, into my scalp. I still laughed despite his nails cutting into me a little.

In the hall, I overheard the doctor tell my parents, “Say your goodbyes.”

I didn’t quite know what that meant at the time. I just figured visiting hours were up.

I remember how the fishing trips/reunions weren’t the same after Dwayne was gone. There was still the cold river, the breeze, the warm sun, the gnats, the Sunkist soda, the fishing poles, the laughter… But something about the laughter was . . . different. I’d still go sit by the river where me and Dwayne used to sit, and pretend to fish, never catching anything. I’d take along with me that Marlboro thermos Dwayne had left me. I’d carry it everywhere. I’d fill it with soda or iced tea, as my parents still didn’t want me drinking coffee. I was too young.

For years, I kept that thermos close by; close to my heart. To me, it was a part of Dwayne. But as the years went by, it went from being in my room where I could look at it every day, to being discarded among other junk in my new garage, still unpacked from the move.

Helping my wife go through some of the boxes, I stumbled upon the thermos. I picked it up. It still felt the same in my hands. The red Marlboro stamp had faded, almost transparent. The memories of Dwayne had faded. I tried to see his face, but I couldn’t clearly.

“Honey, will you help me with this?”

“Sure.”

I set the thermos back inside the box atop of old tennis rackets and dusty Tupperware—things that will probably stay packed away, deteriorating—and went over to help my wife.

“What do you think about putting these candle holders over the mantle?”

“Sure.”

I remember Dwayne sneaking me coffee from that thermos and telling me not to tell my parents.

I never did.