It was untrue. Someone made a comment that begged to be corrected. At least inside the echo chamber of my own head. I rehearsed a snappy response, and imagined the way it would be received for the enlightenment it bestowed. 

"How ignorant of me! Of course, you were right all along."

Then I peeked under the facade. Why did I feel compelled to speak at all? To eradicate misinformation? To prove a point? To save the speaker from the travesty of being wrong? 

Gradually I sensed in myself not altruism, but pompousness. Who elected me as the Great Sultan of editing? Am I so without blemish that I am fit to filter the comments that come thick and fast at every turn? The statement I was reacting to in the first place was one of self importance. 

Thankfully I was quiet. I resisted what was once an irresistible urge to set the record straight. I had a faint memory of a conversation with my uncle, the one who is gone now. He was for me a beacon of wisdom and wit. I was rattling on about something, and he listened without any urgency to upstage my youthful zeal. After a few minutes his silence spoke poignantly, enough that I can still feel the impact forty years later. I remember where we were, and the tilt of his head. He smiled, just a little, not with contempt but with.... patience. It was as if he understood that I was twenty and had all the answers. 

I wish he were here now. I would try harder to listen. But the best part is, I know that where he lives now, he is more eager than I have ever been to soak up the wonders on every side.