Tag Archives: memory

Bringing the Misfits Home

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Bringing the Misfits Home
A Sentimental Christmas Memory

we embrace every relative
     load up the wagon, pack in tight and leap onto the highway
Staten Island to New Jersey
     chrome steeds try galloping past our Country Squire, but Dad fantasizes he’s lead stallion
from the rear-facing seat, I watch the mesmerizing herd of headlights
      trail farther and farther behind       
no other man (driving 90 miles an hour) will ever replace this depth of faith
     my fierce childhood possession, always

into the cold, dark Jersey night, we arrive home
       the V-8 shudders, the presents cushioning our sleepy heads rattle
       my little sister’s pigtails shift on my shoulder, I shake the bones to wake us up     
Tima’s barking gnaws the sleep crust from our eyes
        while we unpack every last ounce of Italian cheer and clamp our gifts
       beneath all available arms
my brothers, sisters and I march like weary soldiers across the snowy lawn  
       we trudge up the brick stoop and into our warm home
pajamas quickly managed, we mime brushing our teeth

       Mom tucks us in and kisses our cheeks with her smile brighter than winter
I surround myself with stuffed animals, swaddle in blankets
       and stare out my bedroom window to search for the blazing star of my picture books
      (I’ll later learn that I’d been praying to Venus all along)

tomorrow, like clockwork, Emile will stop at the corner of our street
       yell out in his mildly, terrified mailman voice, “WHERE’S TIMA?”
one of us will step into the cold to coax our hefty German shepherd
      away from her favorite place on the front stoop to bring her inside
      and just like that, Christmas is officially over

(Opening image, 1980 – Christmas Tree)
(Image directly above, 1980 – my little brother, Vito, me and our goofy shepherd, Rosie
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an image of our childhood shepherd, Tima, a much more serious-minded shepherd )

Hope you’re all doing well ❤️
am:)

unwarm

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new poem “unwarm” published in FREE LIT Magazine, please check out this creative online journal, many talented writers & artists

This piece is based on the night my father passed away. I can’t believe it will be a year this November since he left us. On the night of my dad’s death, all emergency responders were nothing short of amazing🌹

Unwarm 

was it your choice
choosing sleep to die in
I watched them
watched them dad
in your mint bedroom
trying to make your chest say something
while your mouth was bound with elastic
and a pump shoved down your throat
screaming in my head

PLEASE stop

he’s gone

leave him be

it goes on like this for an hour
or nearly so
not pronounced dead
until the white sheet
in the emergency room

was that for us
was that for you
maybe for them
still unsure

I kissed your cheek
not entirely unwarm
you look good dad

not dead
not cold
just quiet

Sweet Memory Found in a Dirty Cabbage Patch

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Dear friends,

As a child, I never cared for dolls. My inner-tomboy wouldn’t allow it. There was however this one special baby doll, that my father brought home on a dark night long ago. Oh, she was beautiful. Her silky brown hair was fashioned into pixie and she had dark, malted milk-ball eyes. She wore a simple blue dress decorated with one little yellow daisy. She was the first doll I’d ever seen with eyes and hair like mine. It was love at first sight.

But my younger sister wanted the new doll too. She needed to add the brown-eyed beauty to her massive doll collection. My sister feared her sibling’s unusual desire for the plastic newcomer. She realized claiming her divine doll right in this situation, might be ineffective. My younger sister employed a more sinister tactic – she cried. Her blue eyes were quite convincing.

My inner-tomboy nearly relented that evening. Except as luck would have it, my inner-tomboy fell out of her upper bunk bed onto her head, ironically while showing off how far she could lean down without falling. She cried too – which she didn’t do often. My father who was within earshot came running in. In that tear-ridden moment, I asked for the brown-eyed, baby doll. Gazing at my pathetic face, my father told my sister she had more than enough dolls. And for the price of one head bump, the only baby doll I ever coveted was mine.

Sadly, I can’t remember what happened to my precious doll. Many years later, while at a younger brother’s high school graduation, I spied a beautiful, brown-eyed girl gripping a dirty, bald-headed Cabbage Patch Doll. She cupped the dolly tenderly to her shoulder. The afternoon sun was lighting her flawless face like an angel. I took a photo.

girlI came home that evening, took out my pastels and drew a cherished childhood memory –