Fear the brown boxes, packed,
the edges soft and dented from ancient water and practice.
Tears, never heard or burdened. 

Fear the cap and gown, looming,
the faded pixie dust.
The superior words and published anthologies,
and the insufficient funds that wouldn't budge.
Drown in transparent bubbles and fermentation.

Afraid of the presentation at three, the number on the scale,
gripping the leather of the steering wheel, your hands always slipped.
Wish for different chemicals to fill your dizzying head,
the skin around your nails bleeding, chewed over.

Terrified of forgetting the creased lines in your face,
deep with memories.
Curse the words you had buried,
deep in the closet, and pray
to whoever would listen. 

Why She Didn't Stay

No one stays in our house.

Maybe on your birthday, when the candles accumulate,

and the years fit inside spit sealed envelopes.

No one is safe in our house.

Exhaust pipes rattling and valves stop pumping.

Maybe on your wedding day, when you need an arm to hold,

but instead you’re left with lip stained flutes and rice in the cracks of your shoes.

Truth is, she could have stayed, she could have

scrubbed the dirt from the crescents of your eyes.

She could have made you eggs, and signed “xoxo”.

But, no one stays in our house,

leaving with tracks of tipped chairs, bent photographs,

and betrayal like knife to the bone.

It could have been the PhD mangled by Crayola swirls or the boots,

that brought rainwater puddles inside, or

the interrupted dreams.

But maybe it’s because God isn’t fair, safe in his own home,

and we’re all left to straighten the pictures and pick up the chairs.

Quanto Caldo è Il Sole?

This is for you and the way your aged

fingers tapped the steering wheel,

and the wink in the review mirror.

This is for you and the faded palm leaves

twisted on a Sunday.

For the all the kernels popped and paper napkins

turned into bowls.

And the presents that were wrapped too tight.

This is for you and your deep, melodious

rumbling of Italian words.

For the hanging strands of flour and egg

drying on the spindles of unfinished wood.

This is for you and your roses,

for their yellow petals, curled

at their edges

and their unpicked stems.

This is for you.

And the hands that held hers,

and kneaded the dough.

And for your quick release. 

The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me

Last July. It was a Wednesday night. It was windy but the air was warm as it swirled around and hugged my body. My brother and sister were already at the counter but my father walked next to me. The florescent sign hung above our heads streaming artificial light over the parking lot and my father’s graying hair. Children ran around in the damp grass as their parents watched them from where they sat on wooden benches propped up against the decaying brick wall. Mothers and fathers. I kicked the ground and pieces of gravel skidded in different directions. We ordered. A banana split, Italian ice, cherry sundae, a swirled cone. Back in the car we cracked the windows and the music from outside sifted in. A combination of oldies, Motown, and Doo-Wop, the notes filled the parking lot. My brother’s deep cackle nestled in his throat before erupting and filling the front seat. My father laughed quietly next to him, his shoulders rising with each chuckle. The lemon ice dripped from the cup holder, half eaten, and my sister’s hand hung over her knee, sticky and limp as she snored softly. The vanilla and chocolate melted on my tongue and dripped onto my thigh. I sighed and stared out the window with the warm air creeping in.

*

Remember when we met? You had on that goofy sweater vest I tell everyone about and those wire rimmed glasses hung, too big, from your little face. Your teeth were naturally crooked just as they are now even after two attempts at braces. We were assigned to sit next to each other. Our name tags taped and sealed on top of the wooden desks. I walked slowly behind my mother into the room, timid as usual. When we approached our cluster of desks she looked over at yours and laughed. I asked her why and she said it was because of your name; such a big Italian name for a little boy. I started to put my Crayola’s and puppy covered notebooks into my desk. You walked in shortly after that. Not behind your mom like me but close to her side. I dropped my pencils on the floor. It could have been yesterday. I wish it was. I always liked your crooked teeth.

*

An Incomplete List of People I Wish Were On My Emergency Contact List

Diane Keaton

Nora Ephron

Sylvester Stallone

Sarah Jessica Parker

Steven Tyler

Don Rickles

Julia Roberts

Meryl Streep

James Frey

Jesus Christ

Julie Andrews

Mario Batali

Deepak Chopra

Kate Winslet

Joe Pesci

*

I went to my grandparents’ house all the time and I remember everything. The yellow tiles in the kitchen and the tomatoes left on the counter. The hammock hanging in the backyard between two towering trees as it swung slowly. The creaking stairs that lead bare feet into the living room. And the fire illuminating the red velvet of the stockings that hang on the mantle above its flames. The second kitchen in the basement that popped many popcorn kernels and saw many napkins turned into paper bowls. The bay window in the front of the house where no curtains hung, that let in streaming sunlight, and allowed a glimpse of a glowing Christmas tree for cars passing by. I remember the parties and all the leftovers. Sinatra singing and crumpled wrapping paper. I remember the hands that kneaded the dough on the butcher block table and I remember him laughing.

*

The cold air wasn’t as cold that night. Two days before Christmas. We ate linguini with clams. His favorite meal. He laughed between forkfuls and winked at me from across the table. His aged skin wrapped around his knuckles and rough palm which laid on top of her hand. He wiped his mouth with his withered napkin, damp with clam juice, before tossing it on his plate. And then he stopped breathing. 

*form based on Sherman Alexie's "The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me"

Forgotten Loss

        The woman sat at her kitchen table. She was older, hair graying at her temples. Pictures were scattered all over the table and in her hands. She held onto them tightly, trying to fit more and more into her boney hands. Some shook loose and fell to the floor. Memories scattered onto the hardwood as she bent over slowly to pick them up. Once she had collected them they were reunited with the piles on the table. Within the piles there was laughter. Birthday cakes and graduation gowns. Hammocks and fireflies. Her fingers grazed over faces. Her withered skin tracing over each smile. She sank into the chair holding only one picture in front of her. There were church stairs and smiling on lookers, their smiles black and white. A brown fur shawl and a powder blue tuxedo. An arm to shade her from the confetti. The picture started to shake as her unsteady hand held it. Just as it hit the floor she heard keys in her front door. Her daughter and son walked through the door muttering about the weather. Her daughter was carrying a little girl, maybe three years old, in her arms.

            “Hi, Ma,” her daughter said.

She walked through the dining room to the kitchen where her mother was sitting. She leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before putting the little girl down on the floor. The old woman kept staring. Her son kissed her on the head and headed deeper into the kitchen pulling boxes off the counters. Boxes of saltines with crackers crumbling out of the cracks, empty tissue boxes, forgotten boxes of pasta. He wiped down the laminate, collected the dust, and scrubbed the warped and stained wallpaper.

“Ma, you can’t let it get this bad,” he said. “It’s not good for you.”

She kept staring. Her daughter sat down next to her and scanned the familiar pictures. Her little girl was trying to climb into her lap so she scooped her the rest of the way up. The little girls’ eyes grew big at all the colors she saw on the table. Baseball gloves, tulle prom dresses, flock Christmas trees. She reached for a picture of her grandmother when she was much younger but as she lightly grasped it in her little hand it was pulled away. The old woman took it and placed it back in its respective pile, never looking up at the girl. Her daughter stroked her granddaughter’s hair, softening the moment.

“Ma, what should we have for dinner?” her daughter asked, in an attempt to sustain any kind of attention from her mother.

“Yeah, Ma. You want pizza?” her son chimed in. “We can make a couple pounds of pasta,” he added.

“We could order out?” her daughter said.

Their mother did not answer. She just sat, still staring at that picture. Her son grew impatient. An impatience that had formed after too many nights like this filled with too much staring and silence. Worry quickly followed this impatience.

“Mom. You can’t keep this up. It isn’t good for you or for us. It’s too quiet in here, it’s depressing. You have to get out and do stuff. Stop looking at these pictures all the time. It isn’t good for you. It’s been too long for you to still be acting like this. Enough is enough. Now, what do you want for dinner?”

The old woman looked up at him slowly, listening to what he was saying, and quietly spoke when he was through.

“Oh, I don’t care dear. Just make sure to set a place for your father.”

She turned to look back at the picture and smiled. Her children stared at her blankly.

“Ma, Dad’s not coming for dinner,” her daughter said to her quietly, taking her mother’s hand in hers.

Her son walked away from the table, running his hand through his hair. She looked up at her daughter quickly but said nothing. Confusion washed over her face. She looked around the kitchen and into the other rooms of the house she could see from her place at the table. She was always waiting for the front door to open.

“Well, he’ll be along soon enough,” she said.

Her children looked at each other, unaware of what to say or what to do. Her daughter hugged the little girl on her lap.

The old woman gathered all but one picture from the table together and tied them up with a red satin ribbon. She reached to pick the little girl up from her daughter’s lap and placed her on her own. She lifted the black and white picture up in front of the little girl’s face. She pointed to the church stairs, the smiling on lookers, the fur shawl, the powder blue tuxedos, and the arm that shaded her. She pointed to a handsome, smiling face and said, “Now, let me tell you about him.”

Wishing

          She stepped onto the platform, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive. She leaned over the edge looking down onto the black tracks, cemented with rust and grime. She turned her head to see if it was coming. It wasn’t. She exhaled deeply, annoyed. She fidgeted with her purse, adjusting the strap digging into her shoulder. She tapped the toe of her wooden platform shoe against the cement, checking her watch periodically. The face was small and round with black hands ticking. After looking for the third time, she let her wrist fall to her side and when she followed it down she saw a small blue ball roll past her. She looked up and saw a boy run after it and grab it before it fell off the side of the platform. He turned around with the ball in hand, a huge grin forming on his face.

            “Robert!” a voice from behind her called. A woman was running up the stairs and grasping at the railing catching her breath before stepping onto the platform. Her chestnut hair was windblown and fell all around her face.

“What did I say about getting that close to the edge?” she asked, panting.

The little boy was still smiling as he said, “But I got it! I didn’t let it drop!”

She walked over to him slowly still catching her breath. She smoothed the pale blue shift dress she was wearing, shaking out the skirt.

“That’s wonderful Bobby,” she said putting both her hands on her lower back for more support, “but next time, just let it go, if only to save your mother from having a heart attack after chasing you.”

“But I knew I could get it. Dad got me my ball.”

“I know he did, Bobby,” she said looking around the platform, “and he would have gotten you another one if you lost it.”

“But I like this one…” his voice trailing off as he held the ball tightly in his hands. She watched him look up and see that same grin appear. “Dad!” he said as a man carrying a little girl on his shoulders appeared climbing the last of the stairs. “I got it!” he yelled. The man walked over to them smiling.

He took the little girl from his shoulders and set her down next to her mother. She wore a dress similar to her mother’s but it was pale yellow with white daisies trimmed with lace. Her light brown hair hung right above her shoulders, some of it pulled away from her face, secured by a white ribbon, it’s bowed loops lying flat on the back of her head. Her mother smiled down at her as she reached for her hand.

“I’m sure your mother was thrilled,” he said smiling as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist, his other hand holding a black briefcase, the leather wearing.

She made eye contact with the mother who looked back at her, shrugging, shaking her head and smiling. She was trying to convey a sense of mutual understanding; woman to woman, mother to mother, but watching them interact only reminded her that she was waiting on that platform alone. She forced a small, polite smile and turned around in time to see the train approaching. When it came to a halt she walked quickly to the doors, getting too close, startling her when they opened inches from her face. She walked into the train car and sat down in the back in a corner seat. She placed her purse on her lap, the black strap hanging over her knees. She flattened her shirt and pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. She watched as the same family walked into the same train car and sat down together, one child on each parent’s lap, the little girl with her mother and boy with his father.

“Put that ball in your pocket,” she heard the father say to the boy, “the train can get bumpy buddy and you’ll lose it again.”

The boy didn’t put up a fight or make a peep in protest and did what he was told, slipping the blue ball into the pocket of his flared jeans. His father tousled his hair with his hand and the boy leaned into his father’s chest looking out the window. She watched the mother run her fingers through the little girl’s hair who sat on her lap sucking her thumb.

“Kelly, what animal are you most excited about seeing today?” her father asked her.

“The bunnies,” she said only taking her thumb out of her mouth to answer.

“Out of all the animals they have,” he said grinning, “you want to see the bunnies?”

The little girl shook her head and her mother kissed her on the head.

“Well, I want to see the anteater!” Bobby said. “I heard he just got there.”

Their father smiled. “Bunnies and an anteater,” he said facing his wife, “these are our children,” he said nodding at both of them and she laughed resting her head on his shoulder.

She looked at her watch again, growing more impatient with each bump and screech of the train. She wondered how she got here; sitting alone on the train. No husband to lean on, no children to bows in their hair or chase after. She looked back at the family in front of the train. The little girl had fallen asleep on her mother’s lap; the mother and father were talking quietly as the little boy held onto his father’s briefcase, guarding it carefully. Light flooded the train car as they came above ground and approached the Fullerton stop. The mother gently shook the little girl awake and she sat up looking around, rubbing her eyes.

“This is our stop, sweetie,” her mother said, “Give your father a kiss.”

The little girl leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek grabbing his neck to hold her up. When the train came to a complete stop she stood with her two children. The little boy put the briefcase on his father’s lap and high fived him when he lifted his hand in front of his face.

“See you later, Dad!” he called out before running to the train doors, his sister following behind.

Before the doors opened the mother leaned down to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.

“Have a good day,” she said as her fingers gently grazed his left temple where his hair was all gray.

He reached for her hand before she pulled away and kissed her palm. She smiled and he squeezed her hand as the door opened. She playfully nudged them apart and extended her hands, one for each child to grab. They started to walk down the platform as the doors closed and the train started to slowly move. As the train passed them up she watched the father make a goofy face out the window making the boy laugh and all three waved to him. He sat back in his seat, shaking his head, smiling. He saw her looking at him and she looked away quickly realizing just how long she had been staring. Out of the corner of her eye she could see he was still looking at her so she glanced back at him.

“Do you have kids?” he asked as he nodded to the window they appeared in just moments before.

“No,” she said looking back at her watch.

He nodded like he understood as the train started to slow again. He stood up, holding his briefcase in his left hand and said, “Get some,” and walked off the train, smiling. 

Polka Dots and Skinny Ties

          Her dress was black with cream colored polka dots and her hair was pulled back away from her face except for wispy pieces that curved like crescents near her outer eye. Her lips were stained red. She sat at a table covered in white linen and newly polished silver. The glass dangling from the chandelier overhead cast a twinkle against the forks. She watched the couples on the oak dance floor, the women’s skirts grazing the floor as their partners twirled them. She watched as women pressed their blushed cheeks to their partner’s and men holding on to their date by the small of their back. One of her aunts swooped in behind her and grabbed her shoulders pulling her out of her haze.

            “Do you see that gentleman over there, Rose?”

            “No,” she sighed.

            “Well, look closer. He’s staring right at you,” her aunt insisted.

            “He’s dancing with another woman,” she said.

            “Never mind the other woman. She’s a stand in. I know his father. Nice man. Works at the bank. I think you should dance with him.”

            “His father?”

“Rose, be serious. It’s a shame you sitting here all by yourself,” her aunt said.

“I’m tired of being set up.”

            “Nonsense, it’s all been arranged. I spoke with his father before the reception. He’s all set to ask you. It took some convincing I might add, so lighten up or you’ll never get married.”

            “Aunt Mary, I’m twenty-four years old,” she said.

            “Don’t remind me,” her aunt said and walked away.

She searched the dance floor again for his face, not even sure why. The song had changed and slower melodic notes began to float out of the mouths of the trumpets and saxophones. Suddenly he appeared as the crowd began to disperse making room for some of the older couples who were more adept at slow dancing. He stood before her, smiling, holding out his hand.

“You must be Rose,” he said.

Giving him a bored sigh she said, “You’re smooth.”

He grinned and her stomach flipped. He sat down in the empty seat next to her, resting his arm on the table, his elbow knocking an empty glass over. She rolled her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said, “my aunt can be a little high strong.”

“Well, so can my father,” he said moving the glass to the center of the table, “but he said I’d be doing him a favor.”

Rose turned to look at him this time. She noticed his eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and he had a small scar at his temple. The lines in his forehead deepened when he spoke.

“And what favor would that be?” she asked.

“Hell if I know,” he said, “he just said he owed a customer at work a favor.” He had a fork in his hand now, scraping his nail over the middle tine. 

“And he volunteered you?” she smirked.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, looking up at her.

His hair was graying at the sides as flecks of silver caught her eye. She smoothed the black chiffon in her lap with her hands.

“I’m no one’s “favor” so you’ll have to tell your dad he’s outta luck,” she said as she scanned the room for her aunt, ready when she spotted her, with a few choice words forming in her head.

“Listen, my father didn’t mean to personally offend you,” he said putting his hand on her knee, “he was just trying to do something nice.”

Her eyes darted from scanning the crowd to her polka dot covered knee his hand was now covering.

“First, you can remove your hand from my knee, thank you.”

He looked at his hand on her knee where he was rubbing the chiffon between his fingers. Her stomach flipped again. He rolled his eyes and pulled away slowly.

“Secondly, your father and I apparently have a different opinion on what constitutes doing something nice for someone else,” she said locating her aunt at table across the room, “so if you’ll excuse me I have a few words for my aunt.”

As she started to get up he grabbed her wrist and she looked down at his hand on hers. His palm was soft but the skin on his fingers that wrapped around her wrist was dry.

“Instead of doing all that, why don’t you dance with me,” he said now grinning, “despite your many apprehensions.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not interested,” she said as she smoothed her hair with her free hand.

“Well, I think if that were true you would have left already,” he said.

“You didn’t give me much of a chance, “she said and she felt her cheeks warm as she slid her hand out from underneath his.

He stood next to her. Standing next to him she realized he was several inches taller than she was. He smoothed his tie, black and skinny.

“Come dance with me,” he asked again, “and at the end of the song you can make a scene on the dance floor if you want, hit me or something. Your aunt will be horrified. Call it payback.”

She looked up at his face and smiled. A man in a white tuxedo had made his way to the stage standing behind a skinny microphone. The band started to play. He held out his hand for her to take.

“You didn’t even tell me your name,” she said.

“Just one song,” he said his hand still extended.

As she took it the man onstage started to sing. The melody made her feel warm as the words wrapped around them. He slowly swung her around when they reached the middle of the dance floor. His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand laid flat on the small of her back. Her entire hand fit inside of his and her blushed cheek found its way to his.