STEP ON A CRACK

STEP ON A CRACK

Mothers in our neighborhood smoke
cigarettes and wear red Indian kerchiefs on
their forehead to keep sweat from falling
onto their faces - mothers all wear tube
tops - stuff toilet paper inside to make them
look big - send their children to the grocery
store, the drugstore where Mr. Ferro gives tiny
brown bags filled with little bottles of pills.

Mother looks worried when she runs out
of her little orange pills. She would say,
“run, I need my pills, it’s the only thing
that keeps me alive.”

So I grab two one dollar bills she has in
her hand- dash down Avenue A - never
thought about the cracks, or breaking
mother’s back – now I am running as fast
as little legs carry me, clenching two one
dollar bills, so tightly, my nails dig deep
into my palm – all I had to do was drop
two dollars, I knew the window sill was
bare.

On a day when I ran to Ferro’s Pharmacy
my mind wasn’t on cracks but on mother
dead on our kitchen floor – because I walked
too slow, or worried about cracks.

Up the steps I climb reaching the door to the
pharmacy – I see Mr. Ferro – he smiles - takes
two dollars and hands me this little brown bag
folded perfectly at the top.

My steps are quick as I leave the drugstore.
Running down four cement steps, across Mason
Street straight down Avenue A. I run –
all the way home hoping mother would not
be stretched out on our kitchen floor.

She isn’t on the floor. She is staring out the
kitchen window looking out toward Seneca
Street - we live on a corner lot in a city called
Schenectady where the General Electric Company
not only made people happy with so many jobs, but
made the world happy when GE was known
as the company which Lights the World.

Perhaps mother was nervous - she kept
dragging on her chesterfield cigarette and
never did look at me, out of breath, trying
not to stumble on uneven sidewalks, sidewalks
where weeds would grow between each slab
of cement.

Our family counted pennies on the window
ledge for a loaf of American Bread, pennies,
and if we were lucky a dime or nickel
was mixed into the clutter of change, enough
for a popsicle, or fudgical.

We took walks together too – mother
kept saying, “Step on a crack break your mother’s
back.” I never stopped staring at the blocks of
cement with the name, “Visco and Sons,” printed
on each slab of stone.

Mother sent me across the street to Central
Market, for a can of spam, oh, how could she
eat spam? It was bad enough she did make me
like White Tuna from the Sea, in that special
can of “Tuna of the Sea.” Mother handed me
money then stared once more from our kitchen
window toward a Central Market, only kitty
corner from the side of our house – directly
across from the alley way. I knew when she
stared from the window she was thinking about
Mrs. Moon – her daughter was killed near the
market, by some driver – ran right over her. . .

So, I left the house, walked across a parking
lot, scuffing cinders as I dragged my feet, lifting
up dirt which would cling to white ankle socks
and twist and turn the coins in my clenched
fist. Spam was cheap.
Mother never made mistakes when it came to
how much money she handed me, and I never
did take that extra dime for a comic book.
Eventually, mother would hand me a dime to
bring to school, use during lunch time at the
penny candy store, where the crossing guard
made sure all the cars stopped on Van Vranken
Avenue.

It was the highlight of my day, carrying my
own brown paper bag filled with small round
Malted Milk Balls, two for one cent. “Cozy Corner”
was filled with kids buying candy. I can still
see the light wooden floors, and a different
smell inside the store – one I never smelled
anywhere else. The walls were bare, and this
little old man stood behind the glass counter
with the patients of a saint, that’s what mother
told me, as he took pennies and change from
a child’s hand.

Before crossing a busy road, a lady in a
mans cop clothing, white gloves, black boots -
told us when to cross. The only reason why
mother let me cross the street and collect
penny candy like all the kids in our neighborhood.

Before entering the big market I turned and
noticed Mother was still standing at the window,
smoking her cigarette - I wondered if she was
thinking about me crossing the street? Or about
people stealing children – enticing little girls into
their car with candy? I opened the door.

Central Market, a bigger grocery store – giant
compared to Charlie’s three doors down Avenue A
where slabs of cement lifted higher in spots,
and lower in others. I had to worry about
mother’s back crossing Charlie’s cement blocks.

Finally I reach the house, climb the stairs holding
a larger brown paper bag, and making sure I
held the railing as I climbed the old wooden
stairs – you see, Daddy told me most accidents
happened in the home, and Daddy was always
right.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved @2011

CEMETARY PARKING LOT from book What Brought You Here?

Cemetery Parking Lot

the space near the front
door - near push
carts - near blue
light specials - near a
lady from the salvation
army, ringing a bell -
swinging a red bucket,
half smiling, tilting
her hat - half smiling -
near double doors -
at the front entrance to
K-Mart...

I want to wait inside
our car - where a
cemetery surrounds
the hospital on the hill,
behind garbage bins -
near employee parking
where you can smoke.
I want to wait inside
the car while you
purchase paper towels,
toilet paper, garbage
bags, soap, and fabric
softener.

I wait in the car play
with the crank out window,
slip my fingers over
the steering wheel -
feel where a horn plays
music, feel a knob
which turns on wind shield
wipers - a knob -
to twist for headlights -

I wait in the car - remove
my shoes, toes touch a
brown - thicker - carpet
you replaced after you
spilled paint from a
hardware store.

I wait inside the car -
blow on windows draw
stick figures on glass -
blow on windows draw
houses, balloons and
cats.

I wait inside the car,
cover my legs with your
old navy blanket, rest
my head on a padded
arm rest - close my
eyes....

And, I wait inside the
car - falling asleep -
listening to a bell held
by a half smiling lady
near double doors -
opposite the cemetery
where you were laid
to rest.

Nancy Duci Denofio
from book "What Brought You Here?"
published by Dystenium 2010

The Carnival

THE CARNIVAL

At the fire station –
cotton candy, caramel apples,
and the merry-go-round,
but I knelt near a window
a shade half blocking my view.
I heard music from the
merry-go-round,
same song, and
same horses.
same people from
our village standing in line.

I leave the porch to
sit on worn steps, chipped
paint catches cotton.
I stretch my legs to kick some
stones, and scuff my shoe’s.

You are not here to yell,
you are not here to watch
me cross a street,
you are not here to hold me
when the horse moves up and
down.

You are not here to hug me.

A small road crosses in front
of the old porch where cars
park near weeds, near grave
markers, those dead from the
village.
I wonder if you too can hear
the music?
I wonder if you too can see
flashing lights?

You are not here to keep my
hand warm, but next to all those
parked cars, you are still there,
still riding the merry-go-round
at the carnival. . .
but, you forgot to say good-bye.

Nancy Duci Denofio
published June 2010
by Dystenium
pages 14 - 15

ABOVE THE WORLD

ABOVE THE WORLD

One morning on my way to school,
I took the orange pills from our window
ledge – facing Seneca Street where
mother watches me if I run to fetch
something from the big market. . .
I take her from the ledge, stuff them
into my pocket of a freshly starched
pink flowered dress.
Behind grandmother’s bushes near
red beans I use to make mud pies,
I remove the top.
All those orange pills stare at me, like
the eyes of those in our neighborhood.
I took one - chewed it – then started to
walk, first past Charlie’s Grocery – he
wasn’t in his rocker chewing on his
cigar. . .

I walked down Avenue A toward my
school, noticed one of mother’s friends
beating a rug against the railing of her
porch. She never looked my way, so I
took another orange pill from the jar,
and chewed it. Then, glanced back
toward the porch, waved to mother’s
friend, sneaking the bottle back into
my pocket. I thought I took enough
to live.

“Twinkle - Twinkle little star….”

Humming the song to myself, leaning
my head against the push out window
of our Studebaker… “How I wonder what
you are?”
I began to draw stick figures on the window
of our Studebaker then rubbing it clean –
breathing – rubbing – breathing – rubbing
and drawing, erasing it – exhaling, and
breathing, drawing, erasing it . . .

“Up above the world so high….”
I believe it was my first time to fly.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

GRANDMOTHER'S BLEEDING HEARTS

GRANDMOTHER'S
BLEEDING HEARTS

That damn radio
blasted
day and night with
church songs
she would sing
with the announcer
blessing Jesus for
everything she had.

Pray tell,
what did she have?

That same old
formica table -
white with red
chipped paint.
One over sized basin
for a sink -
soiled dish towels
hanging, drying
draped over one
piece of wood.
A dented white
metal cabinet
filled with foggy
plastic glasses -
ceramic cocoa bowls,
cracked.

Every other day
she held onto a ice
pick – clenched in
her aging hand
defrosting her old
refrigerator.

Those knees...
they had to be raw.
She knelt on linoleum
day and night
praying.
Praying out loud -
half crying, saying -
"Thanks. Thanks."

Her slippers worn
her apron dingy
she never wanted
anything new - God
wouldn't like it -
she had to sacrifice -
sacrifice.

I still see the old
black iron pan
resting on a stove
without a lid...
scolded herself
holding it in place -
her pantry had a liner,
red little frills at the
edge, red and white
flowers –

cups, saucers
lined perfectly in
place.
No one touched a
single item in her
pantry – And,
If the old door
creaked, or the
calendar shook
on her pantry door -
Grandmother appeared
wondering what it was
you took?

A pull string
hung in the middle of
her kitchen – hit her
head, since a cord
connected it to her
damn radio –
it connected life.

As she aged a hassock
placed at her feet,
lifting them…
her knees too old,
too frail, to hold
her as she prayed...

Her home made
curtains blew in the
wind - she ached to reach
the window sill,
staring at a pane
of glass.

Old and aging,
rapidly.
She never, never
wanted to cry - but
I felt her tears,
her aging heart.

She never gave up
old "Zebra Bread."
a toaster – proud, as
her curled thumbs
flipped the sides,
testing to see if the
toast was done.

Each morning I sat
with her at her kitchen
table, both of us had
cracked ceramic
bowls – and we
tossed, dried old
Italian bread – Dandy
Crackers, Ritz and Graham,
Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes,
and cookies from her old
antique cookie jar –
a bear smiled at me. . .

I loved her cookie jar
filled with striped
cookies from "Woolworth’s"
Those cookies made
me happy.
On Tuesdays, Grandma
climbed the inside
staircase to the second
floor – holding a brown
paper bag. . .

I followed – watched as
her old hands filled
her jar with cookies –
patiently waiting, and
she handed me one;
her gold tooth shinning
as she smiled.

I waited, squirmed
in the chair at the table,
begging with my eyes
for more.

Now - I wonder why
Grandma’s pans hung
from nails in her pantry?
I wonder why her
bread box was nailed shut?

The cookie jar, I
remember most - yellow,
green – eyes of a funny
bear watching – but,
those damn church songs
embarrassed me!

Her homemade curtains
blew in the wind -
echoes of how God
was going to change our
world.

I played beneath the
opened kitchen window -
near Grandmother’s
plants -
her bleeding hearts.


Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved