MY FATHER'S MORNING

MY FATHER'S MORNING

Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen - her radio blaring -
when her friends arrived -
all talking broken English -
my mother. downstairs in
a two family flat said,
"It's too much noise."
But, noise never stopped.

Father, he invested in a
bigger radio - more noise,
unlike Grandmother -
following the death of his
Father – Back then, when
a radio first came to be,
someone died – someone
Italian – tubes were removed
since it was a “new tradition”
to remove all the tubes
from a big radio in her
parlor – “Respect,” was why.

Father never listened
to the "War of Worlds."

On the day Father's Father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .

His Father laying in
their marriage bed; in Sicily
all beds slept in by husband
and wife were a marriage
bed –

Father saw his Father’s
head resting on a pillow
a pillow stitched by
Grandmother's hands
"I Love You," in Italian.
My Grandfather, his head resting
on this pillow - motioned for his
son, and whispered his last request.

"One more cup of water
before I die."

Grandmother at the door
to the front porch, paying
the milkman, a pison’ a
person called pison in
Sicily, was special – as close
to a relative as one could be.

On the front porch – I am
sure Grandmother was
talking, maybe laughing
when her son came running
down the steps –

Her son, still not shedding
tears – as he said, “Papa, he
is dead.”
-
My Father grabbed his
Mother's arm, pulled her up
the staircase – her pison’
followed, as she walked
down a hallway to their
bedroom – laying over his
body, she wept, she screamed,
she looked up to God, asking
why? No one could pull her
away.

Father's youngest brother,
he sank to the floor as his body
leaned against a wall – tears in
his eyes watching the scene of
death.

Father’s middle brother stood
near the doorway – staring I
guess, at his Papa, his Mama
as she touched his Papa.
A empty cup of water placed
on top of their bed stand, empty.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
1-14-2011

NOTE TO HEAVEN

NOTE TO HEAVEN

It has been so long since you left.

Tell me, how could something stab you in your heart?

Remember when you brought your son to New York City?
You were happy when you left, holding his hand, waving
from the train. Grandmother told me, “He looked like a
gangster.” I guess you seldom wore a suit.

Remember the apple tree, pear, and cherry… they are
all dead too. The house is getting old, run down, but
I still visit. Did they call it Goose Hill in 1928?

I wish you were walking with me, talking to me, holding
my hand when I was a child. I never knew you.

Women in the neighborhood work, wear pants, and
drive cars. Some don’t believe in marriage, or children,
and some women choose to have children without
a husband. You had your marriage planned: three days
and you were married.

I wonder if you felt pain, as Grandmother, the night
your son died? That was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?
Now, so many people have passed away, or they live alone
without family or friends.

I still want to know - how did something stab your heart?

Remember when you told the boys not to climb the old
water tank, but they didn’t listen. The brick building in the
alley, the one where fruit was stored, it still stands; as children
we etched our name on brick.

Did you know you were leaving? Did you?

People commute to New York City by Amtrak, in no time.
Trains move fast. And, no one makes home made wine, or
gathers on a Sunday for a feast around the old maple table.

Were you sad, when you had to leave? Did you know?
Did someone stab you in your heart? Or, was it really a crate?

Down Street is empty, stores you would remember are torn
down. That railroad bridge crossing Erie Boulevard
near your home on Green Street is still there; but someone
robbed the sign, the city designated your green house by the
old tracks, historical.

You were a good man, an honest man with a family.

Did you watch from heaven when the boys sat around
the table and burned the mortgage? It was the best day of
their lives.

Grandmother never placed a thing in the bow window
where you laid inside a casket. They drained your
blood into a tub, in your own bathroom.

Your friend, the one blown up in his car in front of a
hotel, he was on his way to testify on your behalf? He
must be with you now. All you did was work hard, and
deliver fruit; but the fruit men didn’t want to pay.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH

COMMUNICATING AFTER DEATH


A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
has been on display since you
passed away
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
and there - a Schlitz shot glass
peers at us with eyes unseen.

A simple token of you brings back
laughter – stories - tales of when you
too were here embracing life -
it was this a glass we brought . . .
I told you so
while I talked to you on the porch -
asking, “Please show us you are here
tonight.”

A different week - broken mirrors. . .
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moves
moving dust around - a clean circle,
we knew it was you

a meeting with a glass, he told me
to place inside my purse – so
that night – on our porch I asked
you to please give us a sign –
to know forever more
you are with us

we are sitting among all
who prayed to themselves
to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
which mean so much – I knew
you were listening – I knew you
were following my steps

number one – we knew a medium
came through as she talked -
words of a child – what she
held inside a coffin – what she
wore to sleep – who was the last
one to hold her hand. . .
next a woman deep in depression –
another needing surgery – and
finally the girl in the blue blouse -
our eyes connected

she said, “I see two – a paternal
Grandmother pushing to be heard
first and your mother – holding
a baby in her arms.”
Every word connected us – but
when she held up her hand and
said, “Your mother is
talking about a little glass” my
husband nearly collapsed.
when she said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
and when she told me not to
soak my feet, it was expensive -
supportive shoes I need. . .
mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t skipping a beat – she
did not want to stop telling
and all she said was perfectly
read -

now I know for sure your
with me – between us as we
ride – you said so, knowing I
do not drive. . .
you told us you were listening

like the good luck plant – a man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day, he gave to me,
a stranger

so we continue – we communicate
without words – your love remains
strong now – as if we looked
eye to eye

Nancy Duci Denofio