I have cut and displayed them, centerpiece, in Grandmother’s pink vase from Italy, at an otherwise empty dining table.
Recall the feasts and laughter, conversations in English, and Sicilian dialect.
Oh yes, there was eternity to be found in the tomato sauce with freshly picked basilico from the garden.
There were years and miles of ceaseless love and nurturing, laboring—babies, sewing, ironing, shining fine silver, baking (fresh-cream, pears and apples, decadent chocolate, cinnamon, sugars, candied nuts, butter, and frosting!)
They taught family every fundamental thing, as did our fathers, to live a life of honor and respect, thankful to God for all—pain and glory. And so, there were endless stories between the veins and thinning skin of my mother and grandmother’s hands that fried meat with garlic in harvest’s best virgin olive oil.
My father, grandfathers, and uncles, took pleasure in the fruits of their labor: cherished wives, beloved children, and groomed gardens of manicured grass surrounded by shrubs and cement stones, defined their ownership and success in America. Figs, strawberries, tulips—their pride—sweat and muscle in the bricks and tiles, designed and placed by them. A reward of pressed grapes in a jug takes the edge-off. My grandfather’s cigar smoke lingered, sweet and pungent.
Today, in this different home capture the ocean breeze and salted air upon entering. Impatiens borders the picket fence. It is far from the Brooklyn bakery, Bronx’s White Stone Bridge, or the Harlem streets where my father shined shoes.
I don’t think a Sunday exists as they once did, or that sunlight shines the same joy, or that music lifts a soul, or a Saturday morning excites; adventure, faith, dreams, or that hope remains the same.
Outside – sunshine, birds, honeysuckles, a bicycle horn (perhaps a basket sits upon it carrying a towel to lay in the sand and disappear from, well, anything weighing on a heart).
Inside, please, gaze upon the daisies because they smile and sing with love, not knowing…
Focus on the scent of bread rising in the oven because it is comfort and security.
Capture this performance of a smile. Believe me, please, because I have followed the recipe.
As I note the thinning skin on my own hands, and search the stories of those fine women that prepared me—for a day, a man, a way of life, like yesterday, and a world that remembers.
I can’t breathe. No, I can’t go on. I hope you understand.
My life, with you, is in a paper bag, in-and-out hyperventilation.
You can’t find the answers. Let it be—
Oh, you agree it’s a riddle, and yet you feign sanity as if the weight won’t crush you like a boysenberry. Splat! Blood and unwillingness everywhere.
Look! The shrubbery is green, the flowers are trying desperately to hold-on to Spring, but that blessed time has passed.
The ever-present avoidance.
Yes, nature, a glorious magic spell. I am aware, but please.
Why, because two espressos, and the morning’s black and white print, reading between the lines, makes you self-assured. In the meantime, the sky went grey hiding from a pessimistic interpretation.
To the contrary!
The sun called my name, and I was singing its praises.
I was spinning in optimism, about to create seven perfect days ahead.
You, however, toil for whatever tidbits the world feeds you, gullible—a sponge for imaginary gossip.
That’s your problem in life, taking it for something it is not intended to be. Dreaming of Eden.
Hard work and planning, I tell you!
I wish you’d wake-up in the truth far from expectation and madness.
When in the end, the plan of hard work and no pleasure are a tombstone and daisies? Honestly, I would not die from your silence. Being captive in its daily oppression is overrated. Do you remember being inquisitive, less stringent?
I recall more space in your voice for reason, less bitterness, long locks of auburn hair that embraced simplicity sweetly, a blade of grass, the vase-center table with tulips.
Before I became a victim! A scissor for a tongue, cut-out replicas of a heart,
tore to pieces, and the hardness in bones that struck the core, oh such pain
inflicted by arrogance.
Sorry.
(Black, shark eyes, no emotion. There is no sincerity in apologies). As if I could believe, and even if possible, would no longer want to. This time I will be a bird, courage, soaring into a time that is generous with love, reciprocity, a field that never ends in gratitude, sees me as fragile and simultaneously powerful, then takes me to its heart—a new home.
Unphased. Imagine his silence—
I will clear the gutters before the storm, board the windows, keep nature and life far from us.
I shudder at the earth that never moves inside of him, even on fire. For this, I can always trust—insipidness, steadfast in the things that hold us secure in mediocrity.
I want to die, at least, in the fever of reckless abandon.
Each step was carved-out in the endless days of years that passed too quickly, and I, waiting, always waiting, for the one thing to save me, lost myself in the process.
I adhered to expectation, stretching only my fingers and toes to brush the excitement of a churning sea or dreaminess of a Marigold. I remained sincere to fear, and the guilt that prevented ever fully submerging and emerging.
I am confident that I could breathe underwater living as I imagine:
Free from solid ground, as a yellowtail fish, a seeking white gull, as salt in waves, and mist in the air, the moon when it rises—the whole majesty, or each star’s wish,
and the glorious sun like an urgent heat that falls onto shoulders embracing a new day.
I want to be who I am unapologetic, free from the memory, delighted in a moment.
Ah, nothing. I mean, I’m tired. Today had a mind of its own.
Days often do.
Yeah, it would seem so… I just wanted to get the things done that I had planned.
It happens. What stopped you? Were you able to clear things up so that tomorrow, perhaps you can stay on track with your plans?
You see, that’s the thing about days with minds of their own. There’s no telling. If I get everything out of the way, it’s still left to be determined. They are non-committal that way, those days, or I am to them.
Right about the days, and you? What do you feel you’re not committed to, or that you’d instead be promised to doing?
I don’t want to be responsible for the external pull that drags energy from me and diverts attention to everything else. The daily minutia is so goddamn important, isn’t it to our survival? The rotten details in every aspect of living and not being. I want to be. Myself! Not selfish, but existing wholly, which I can’t seem to do with the pull, this way, that way, the needs and wants from everything and anyone else.
Did someone ask you to do these things for them today?
No.
So, why did you feel obligated?
It’s an internal struggle—a self-induced argument with my conscience—pressure to be perfect. I want to be, and simultaneously am resentful. I don’t want to care, not about my thoughts, or the dirty counters, the slippers left under the table, a dirty stovetop, or the dog wanting to go out for the third time. Most of all, I can’t bear to think of anyone else’s judgment in the case it isn’t all done.
Would they judge you?
I don’t know. Maybe. I mean sometimes silently, or by their martyr act. I know that I resent anyone else’s implication that I’m not up to par.
I think that’s more your internal dialogue and the things you’ve been made to feel, the tags assigned to you that hold no real truth.
I agree. Maybe I can have a tag sale.
Gentle laughter–Maybe you can.
Tell me what you’d like to be doing? If you could remove the distractions.
I’d live! I’d have fun doing everything that I want with zero roadblocks. I’d be free and perfect at the same time. Yes! I could find a place for everything, then all I’d have to do is maintain. I could stop worrying all of the time. I’d sleep like a baby and wake up years younger. I’d have time each day to breathe, not the way I do now with doubt or hopelessness, but empowered! I could silence the things that do not serve me. I would see myself in the mirror and be sure it was me looking back. There would be so much space that I could come alive, not the way someone said I ought to be, but the way I was meant to be.
I see. Thank you. You do have a beautiful way of expressing yourself. Perhaps your creativity is repressed by your expectations of being something or someone you cannot be to please a phantom.
Yes, the phantom ever-present within me because I care enough to listen. That’s my downfall—a need to please, to be validated.
Did I tell you, my muse has woken? She was angry with me for giving into fear and filling my world with clutter to mask the heartache.
No, you hadn’t mentioned it. I’m happy to hear if, as a muse, she is serving you.
Yes. I found her while taking my daily walks. She’s, of course, supplying me with incredible ideas far from anywhere I could write them down. But something happened last Tuesday.
What is that?
I was walking along my way when suddenly I was captured by a beam of sunlight perfectly situated on a green leaf on a low tree branch that I was passing beneath. It was so much more than what I describe. It was Omnipotent. I’m confident because time stopped, and I was given a gift of relief and clarity. It seemed possible that I could cross over into another dimension. I was overcome for seconds in pure joy, the kind unimagined or impossible in this life. I wanted to own the feeling forever but was left with only its memory.
Wow. That was certainly a powerful experience. What, if anything, did you take from it outside of the few moments of joy and their memory?
The knowledge that freedom exists to be truly happy. It’s a matter of believing, I could be or do anything, even on days with minds of their own.
The problem is people have had it too good, too easy. The days of gratitude and grit became lazy and demanding. Sadly a portion of our country’s citizens has forgotten their blessings. A different part never appreciated our greatness. And worst of all, another group has betrayed us. Throughout the years, America has been a great beacon of hope. People from all lands made the journey to America with a dream of a better life. History has seen nations suffer, ravaged by war and famine. People of those nations have fled to America. We have opened our arms and cradled them with newfound hope. No doubt, there were struggles. People had to learn a new language, navigate foreign land. They prayed to be accepted and sometimes initially were not, but they persisted and simulated as proud Americans until they were. Everyone with this American dream worked hard to build their new lives towards prosperity. It wasn’t easy. Hardship was real. There was a depression, war, plague, but a strong foundation. America was worth the effort, and the place happily called their new home. Different ethnicities built us strong and made a great melting pot. We thrived on Christian-Judeo values, one nation under God. Today, we still have those that make the journey. They do things the right way, follow our laws, work hard, start businesses that build our economy, share their cultures through food, language, art, fashion, trade, building, music, so many essential things we embrace. They are proud to become Americans, and it shows in their ethics. They educate their children, teach respect and gratitude for all this country has to offer. Together, we form a strong community that is the United States of America.
Those who have forgotten, never known, or betrayed us, with hatred and division tear at the fabric of what we are as a people and country. A system of laws, our Constitution of rights, corrupted by insidious politicians that, by greed, turned on their citizens. By selling out our farmers, mom-and-pop stores, technology, manufacturing of all kinds, pharmaceutical, to name but a few things that America was perfectly capable of but got robbed. These politicians, socialites, and their demanding classes have replaced our values for hard work, family, worship, unity, and building dreams, with entitlement, abortion, breakdown of the family, belittling of God, and division, hence creating a culture of hostile demand, while they perch above. They manipulate laws to control a portion of the population and destroy those that will not comply. To line their pockets while collecting votes from those they have fooled. They’d rather people be needy to build big government’s wealth than be self-sufficient. “Let them eat cake!” Their selfish actions have opened the door, like ancient Babylon, to the enemy—With furious souls and jealousy in their hearts, have hated America from the start envious of its successes and wealth. They thrive on our discord from outside of our borders, seeking the opportunity to destroy. Traitors from within fuel the fire and turn dreams into nightmares. Together they have formed a trojan horse.
Until now, it was inconceivable to imagine a less than fortunate life in America because of what our forefathers sacrificed for us. Yes, we’ve had it too good, too easy. Great men and women courageously stood up and defended our liberties, and because of those people, we have our freedoms. Today, they are screaming to our spirits, pulling on our heartstrings, encouraging us to be brave, as they see our great democracy threatened—Save the country we built that you call home! Don’t let the traitors steal your souls! Don’t let the enemies win! Remind those that have forgotten! Educate ones that have never known! Punish and disown the ones that have betrayed! This era of wanton evil is your call to rise, as, without a doubt, this time in history will define us. It will determine the rise or fall of America—land of the free, home of the brave if we defend or give her away. The future of our children is at stake—the future of the world. We mustn’t let them down, those that have fought and died, carried the weight on their backs and built, preached for peace and good, those that have embraced our values. We must not let ourselves down.
A treasured memory of mine from when I was a young girl, was going for a Sunday drive after our traditional early afternoon family dinner of macaroni and meatballs. A celebrated family gathering of delicious flavors, and of varied conversations that often included stories, laughter, and debate. After which, my mother often would say to my father, “Freddie, let’s take a ride.”
It was the 1970’s. The sun appeared to shine differently, magically-brighter. Entering through glass panes, it landed on every article in the room with beams of hope, and a subtle but distinct at-ease sense that lingered in the air. It traveled through one’s spirit—a hopefulness down to the feet infused with innocent joy eager to move throughout the day. There’s never been more distinct sunshine. Not for me.
I’d join my parents in my father’s Pontiac for a drive. I was the youngest of seven children. Older siblings opted-out with their own agendas. Sometimes, but not always, my sister, Joanie, and brother, Freddy, would take a drive. The three of us were closest in age in what my father liked to call his “second family.” The split between his seven children—the first and the youngest with eighteen years between them. I can distinctly recall thinking to myself about my oldest brother, “but who is this guy?” when he would visit from college on sporadic weekends, then try to administer authority over me at the ages of three and four years old.
Sunday drives were either aimless in nature in which nine out of ten times we’d stop for Carvel ice cream, because second to my mother’s saying, “Freddie, let’s take a ride,” she’d say, “Let’s get ice cream.” I was in love with all of my mom’s ideas. I also loved a vanilla-chocolate twist on a cone with colored sprinkles. Other times, when the drive wasn’t merely to get out of the house routine and to enjoy a mild breeze through a partly rolled down window while taking in the Long Island sights, it would include visiting my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We’d alternate Sundays, between rides with no destiny but ice cream, to going to dad’s family in the Bronx, then to mom’s family in Brooklyn. Talk about the best of worlds (and food!)
Importantly, I must not forget to include the occasional drive, after relentless pleading on my part, to Palisade’s Amusement Park in New Jersey. “Daddy, can we go to Palisade’s Park today? You said, maybe last week. It’s this week. Can we go, please? Daddy, Palisade’s Park, today, please, the rides… I can chuckle to myself now when I recall my mother’s not so subtle cringing, or eye-rolling upon seeing their commercial air on television.
In Brooklyn, my maternal grandparents lived in a beautiful brownstone that included their own Italian specialty store. Imagine the bread, tomatoes, and sandwiches for a few things. You could enter the store from their kitchen through a heavy Dutch door. Sometimes, my grandmother would open the top portion of the door, and I enjoyed leaning onto the bottom half to peer into the store. I remember my grandfather coming home from a long day of work down a hallway and through that door on nights when I’d sleepover. He always took the time to play with me and my dolls at the dining table. His cigar burned, and there was a nearby jug of homemade red wine that sat on a sparkling Formica table with silver-edging, surrounded by six vinyl chairs. Later, my grandmother would make me comfortable on a pull-out couch to sleep with a blush-colored satin comforter.
In the morning, the backdoor to the courtyard was opened to allow a refreshing breeze. My grandmother nearby in her railroad-style kitchen, which was really part of the whole room. There was a dinged-up large aluminum coffee pot that sat on the stovetop with freshly percolated coffee at all times of the day. I remember her cutting fresh vegetables and the sizzling of meat in a pot filled with olive oil. She was robust in an apron that went over her head and tied around her back.
A black buzzer was attached to the backdoor molding that connected with the apartment above where my Aunt Marion and Uncle Charlie lived with their children, my cousins. They would buzz each other when they needed to speak and communicate by talking outside from one floor to the other. I loved going between each apartment up the grand staircase in the entryway with its gorgeous mahogany railing. When you first entered the home, my grandparent’s German Shephard, Bart, would jump up for a kiss and pat on the head before my grandmother would tell him, “Va bene, basta. Bravo ragazzo. Vai a sederti.” (Okay, enough. Good boy. Go sit down.) My mother grew up in this brownstone with her brother Vincent, and two sisters, Catherine and Marion.
The Bronx. A different story. A different dialect. My maternal grandparents did not even believe that my father was Italian when they first met him with his Sicilian slang. He lived in Harlem and shined shoes to help my grandmother put food on the table. He would speak to me about the importance of eating my potato skins, and never to throw anything out just because it’s burned. His sisters were Lucy (my godmother), Josie, and Mary. His brothers were Tony, Vincent, and Sammy. My father told me of how he swam in the East River and played stickball. He was hit by a car three separate times!
I never met my paternal grandmother. She died the year I was born. Catarina was her name. She was dark-haired, and quite tall compared to my grandfather that stood only 5’1″. My grandfather, more often referred to as Pop-Pisciotta, or Grandpa-Benny was not one to be reckoned with. Despite his height, his stature was like that of a sailor. Think Popeye. He had thin lips and a sturdy nose that took a turn to the left. He was a bricklayer, tough as nails, and as he aged into his nineties, my father, uncles, and cousins would laugh in amazement as he’d start fights with neighbors half his age over one thing or another. One time, when he was elderly, he grabbed a bat and went after a younger tough guy wising-off to him, and the man in total disbelief, fear, and respect, backed-off.
Going to the Bronx was more about visiting aunts and uncles. Grandpa Benny lived with Uncle Sammy and Aunt Mela. My father’s family were seven siblings all together, and there was no shortage of first cousins, each of them with jovial personalities. Our aunts and uncles were great fun and big love. The Sunday drive over the Throgs Neck Bridge was one that I always looked forward to, watching all of the sailboats gather on the Long Island Sound.
Though we had already eaten an earlier dinner, once we arrived, the cold-cuts would immediately be placed onto the table. Everyone enjoyed sandwiches, my favorite was always Genoa Salami, followed by fruit, nuts, and sweet desserts. My aunt Mela had the voice and smile of an angel with magnetic blue eyes when she asked with the warmest sincerity if she could get you anything else. All of the aunts and my mother were brilliant at making everyone feel nurtured. The men were strong and steadfast. There were voices across the table speaking in the Bronx-twang, which is what I like to call it, but soft, and refined by Italian family love. The kids played together in another room while the women talked and drank coffee, and the men played cards.
The ride home on a Sunday was always contented. On the way home from Brooklyn, the Bronx, a Long Island drive to get ice cream, and even the occasional one from Palisades Park, it was quiet and reflective. There was easy gratitude in knowing we were rich in what we shared together.
Sometimes, I’d let my eyes give into their heaviness and close on the way home as the road hummed beneath us. I knew my father would carry me inside, and I’d rest my head on his shoulder. I knew I’d sleep comfortably in my bed, with my sisters and brothers nearby, and parents that loved all of us. I knew when I got out of bed in the morning, I’d smell something tantalizing that my mother was preparing in the kitchen. I could count on, without doubt, feeling loved—magical sunshine, even on a rainy day.
Today, at times when life is painfully still, lacking luster, and there’s waiting, desiring something more, or different, I like to recall the sunshine of the 1970s, even if it’s only in my mind, it carries my heart through hardship. Sometimes in a brief moment, I catch a glimmer of yesterday that feels profoundly real today, and I imagine I can actually step inside of that car for a drive and see them all once again.
Until then,
Perhaps someday in the liveliest sunshine of Heaven—
Today, I am proudly sharing with all of you, my brother Vincent’s website. He is a playwright, having written an array of exquisite works on different subject matters throughout his years. Several of Vincent’s plays have been performed Off-Broadway, New York, with great success.
–to anybody who’s looking for a new, electric voice in the American Theatre:
I wonder what part of me it is, the creative, spiritual, or innocence, that beckons at the same time I look out of a window, not looking at all, but inside of my head, thinking thoughts that bring me to tears. Desperate to control the outcome, and rearrange what has past. Then in a split-second interruption occurs. I see what’s outside the window, outside of me. Wow, I say aloud, stopped in my tracks—splendid beauty! I must capture nature’s perfect story, its thoughts perhaps. Suddenly, I realize all of my parts are on loan and in unison with the Creator, asking I cast the fragile and human, limited ego aside. Dry your eyes. Trust everything is evolving as it should. See the tree rooted in nourishment. Upright, forming intricate branches—each having gone through rough, barren winter, the hopeful new birth of spring, joyous, playful summer, sprouting blooms of love in color, and in fall surrendering its leaves. I am witness to the miracle of existence. Every second, season, choreographed to perfection. I, a naked bud.
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