My father skipped bloodlines like rivers just to be uncle to you. Mama Ruth said he plucked weeds and trimmed trees so mother nature could exchange bundled breaths of open flowers. Uncle Mike tends to his personal garden with care. His well-kept shrubs don’t stray—they curl into waves on the occasion he massages their roots with grease. Ashley stands close by in her twisted braids with beads. And lest you forget him—the do-it-all, done-it-all type—of course he cut his own hair. Slack over his shoulder, the towel blends into his white tee like a Hawaiian wave folding within itself, the kind of folding his fingers manifest when holding a deck of cards. He presses thumb to spoon as if teasing a six of spades, greedy for table slap and book snatch. Uncle Mike lives by “real quick;” he’s forever a minute away. He had adjusted his wristwatch the way real timekeepers do it, watch face to palm so time can direct its hands across his calluses, his evolving graduation. He winds his fingers toward the face of time. Uncle Mike offers another hand. His signature.