A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
Three of us usually accompany her. Two of us push unwieldy shopping carts. Mom fills three carts every two weeks for nine ravenous people, one voracious dog, neighborhood visitors (back when it was quite common for neighbors to stop by) and of course, the Italians-the Italian relatives.
The store is bright. The bakery section smells of heaven. The produce aisle with its brazen display of foil-wrapped candies is my favorite. When Mom moves onto the adjacent aisle with two carts and one of our other sisters, my younger sibling and I begin stuffing our pockets.
Though Dolores and I believe these illuminated candies are ‘free’ — our better angels tell us to stow the candy deep.
Mom wouldn’t catch us for quite some time.
One of my favorite photos – Uncle Robert (Mom’s brother) always brought great gifts whenever he visited us from far-off California – this was the one visit he botched – then our smiling mother forced us to wear Uncle Rob’s gifts for a photo op. We were all quite miserable about it. Still – some of us attempted a smile…
Top row – left top right Grace, Virginia; bottom row – Robert, Vito, Dolores, me
Well, it’s official – no turning back now – 2025 here were go…!
am:)
I am thrilled my CNF piece, “Missing Knuckles,” was selected to be part of the amazing anthology, Death Lifespan Vol. 12, published by PURE SLUSH, independent publishers since 2010.
“I was twelve the year I noticed her missing knuckles. My perfect mother was missing the section of her pinky where there would have been ligaments, bone and a knuckle. Her right pinky was noticeably shorter than its left counterpart. And the finger with the diamond I sometimes lost my eyes in, though normal in length, was also missing a knuckle. Mom’s ring finger could only bend using the knuckle closest to the palm of her hand.
What other secrets did my mother have? What else hadn’t I noticed? She laughed when I accused her of not coming clean sooner and was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.” —excerpt from Missing Knuckles
PURE SLUSH has put together an entire LIFEspan series. These remarkable anthologies are worth checking out, and it’s always wonderful to support our independent publishers.
Thank you,
am:)
I hope you’re all managing the heat.
anntogether 