Misused

“It’s a strange phenomena,” I told her, “People who date out of comfort.”

“You mean phenomenon?” she asked, “Just the one event, right? Because ‘phenomena’ is plural.”

Once, I tried sharing how I grew up with cystic acne. I pointed to how the legions would spread from my chin to my temple.

“Lesions,” she told me, “A legion is a militant group. Usually, overwhelming in number.”

I replied, “But that’s exactly what I mean.”

She nodded. “Yes, but it’s still wrong.”

Another time, I confided my wish to be more clairvoyant, then she stopped me to say that the word in that form is supernatural. To be clairvoyant is to be prophetic, to have biblical powers. To want clairvoyance, though, is perfectly acceptable. So instead, I should start saying that I want clairvoyance.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think you use words that you only kind of know. You probably shouldn’t do that. Clarity is key.”

On another lazy Saturday, we lounged on her bed. I whispered, “I’m never so mellow than when we’re laying together.”

“Lying,” she said, “The word you want, is lying.”

Eulology

I wrote my first eulogy for my uncle, Julio Junio - July June - a backwards progression that mirrored our relationship; I hardly knew him alive, but now in death, people expected me to.

My immigrant family qualified me to write it, me being the only member studying English. They asked me to solve the issue the same way I went to my I.T. friend for a quick and free fix, the same way I expected him to debug a language causing me difficulty.

Problems arose. Mainly, how I thought him more an ornament than an uncle, more furniture than man. And what should I say about a corner fixture? ‘Farewell to our beloved armchair, patterned with liver spots and crooked teeth.’ Or, ‘Our table passed away with all his legs. He denied the operation in order to stand, but died lying down, anyway.’

To solve the issue, I gathered my relatives and held memory tryouts. I found it helpful, how he traded my cousin video game time for back massages. I decided to leave out how nice he was, according to my mom. Or how really nice he was, according to his widow. I questioned what to make of the fact that my uncle cried when he first landed in California. My family picked him up hours late, and by then, he thought himself stranded - not only lost, but alone.

I oversaw the layout of these story shards, upholstered with tucked seams to hide how none of them were mine. Not only did my family buy the finished product, they commissioned me for the next two eulogies, two more pieces to complete a dining room set.

The formula remains. My relatives give me fragments, then I tinker until it looks like a person. Eventually, I won’t have to source for second-hand accounts. I won’t have to fake the intimacy. Eventually, I’ll look back in fondness at how I used to be an impostor.