I've been visiting Uncle Don most weekends since February. Months of sickness have left his skin loose and soft; it drapes from his bones. His hair has started growing again, sporadically, and it reminds me of the patchy fur of an old, dusty rabbit skin the farm dogs used to play with. Between dozing and reruns of Bonanza, he's been regaling me with tales of ranch bosses and horses long since past away. Exhausted once again, he leans back against his pillow, winks at me, and turns his gaze back toward the TV. "You're not leaving until I get my sugar." I grasp his hand lightly, and lean down to hug his tiny frame. Burying my nose in his neck, I brush my cheek against his.

I remember visiting Uncle Don on the farm when I was about four. Years of labor in the sun made him tawny and stretched like an old rubberband, and I stood hugging his knees, gazing up up up at his bushy silouette in the bright morning sun. We had our ritual. His wide mouth never smiled, only pulled sideways from the corners as he leaned forward and grumbled "gimme some sugar, Jessie!" I'd shriek and escape, scampering away in circles as large point-toed cowboy boots stomped the dust just behind. When we were both near exhaustion, he'd catch me up in his arms and swing me around and around in the air. He'd hug me close and rub his scratchy brown beard on my cheek, on his hot breath hints of stale smoke, coffee, and sweet grass.