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:)
Herbie The Lovebug is a Volkswagen with blue and red pinstripes and the number 53 on his chassis. In his movies, Herbie never fails to rescue his owners whenever they need saving. They need saving a lot. Herbie once traveled to Monte Carlo for a race. He goes many other places too. Racing is his passion and he is creative at winning.
A few months ago, Dad brought home a Volkswagen. The little bug sits next to our Grand Squire wagon. But it never appears diminished. Our little red car has no pinstripes or racing number, still I know it is kind and clever. Whenever Dad drives it, he always smiles.
(Each week en route to the gym, I pass by this poor little Volkswagen. I finally remembered to take a picture before driving by. Always, when I see this little car, I travel back to the little car in my childhood driveway — the red bug who had the power of getting my ornery dad to smile.)
Happy weekend:)
Mrs. DeDeo rarely steps away from the classroom. Today she is needed across the hall for a moment. A moment is all Dwayne needs. He leaps to the front of the room body-blocking the chalked letters we’re supposed to copy into our marble notebooks.
With a spoon from his pocket, Dwayne excavates boogers while singing how he likes mowing down squirrels. We don’t believe him. Mrs. DeDeo returns. Dwayne begins mercy yowling. The fear in his voice chains John the Baptist between my ears. Imprisoned in one of Herod’s palace cells, John prays to receive Jesus’ blessing.
The following morning John will lose his head to dawn’s early light.
(I find joy in sharing bits and pieces of my childhood truths here with you. These memories make me smile – even the sad and odd ones. My inner-child lives as a constant reminder of humility and perseverance. Of kindness and compassion.
Each of our childhoods lingers near, our memories like shadows to embrace, to reshape, to share, to delete, to run from, to run toward…)
My flying squirrel was created with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils. I think he’s a few years old now.
Thank you,
am:)
Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.
I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.
Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.
Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”
I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.
The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”
I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.
My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.
Today, I no longer believe in God.
(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)
I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.
am:)
Every library Friday, I check or attempt to check-out the illustrated book, Pegasus as retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Belephron astride Pegasus, the mighty pair battling the Chimera, the pearl-winged horse nuzzling little children.
Sometimes the school librarian says, “You’re not giving anyone else a chance to read this book. Do you think that’s fair?” And Pegasus is taken from me.
On the days I’m permitted Pegasus, the over-sized book holds steadfast beneath my arm like I imagine Jesus carrying his cross.
One Saturday following a library day that I wasn’t given Pegasus, my little sister’s friend tells me how much she loves horses. I see the pony-love in her eyes. I give her my only two Breyers’ horses because I don’t want them separated.
I love horses more than anyone. And now, I have no horses all over again.
Ah, the memories that long ago made me sad, make me smile today:)
(Black and white drawing of my Breyer’s Paint Pony done when I was 13.
The Pegasus book I lived with as a child, I own at 61.)
Too many mornings spent waiting. My Converse forever damp from crossing the neighbor’s lawn. Daily curb squatting since noticing the bony cat. Cereal bowl sloshing in my hands.
Finally on this damp morning the bony cat sidles near, laps up the Fruit Loop milk, then she bites me and sprints away.
I’m tiptoeing home to wash the blood off my thumb and to hug our German Shepherd who’s never bitten anyone except the paperboy but that was the day he tossed a Community Life at her head.
(Pictured here: back row left to right- my wise older sister Virginia, my baby sister Dolores sitting on Uncle Robert’s lap (mom’s brother), Grandma Gulli (mom’s mom), my other wise older sister Grace holding onto Tima, our beloved family dog, front row- my little brother Vito, I’m squatting in center. and our baby brother Robert in bouncy seat)
Mom — we don’t need phones, you can hear me through the window just fine.
She picks up the phone on her rolling table and holds it upside down to her ear.
Dad is gambling on my shoulder.
Mom — Dad is not on your shoulder. Look, I’m not using a phone and you can hear me just fine.
My teeth are falling out. This phone isn’t working.
Mom — your teeth are not falling out.
She continues talking into an upside down landline.
Mom — please put the phone down.
The receiver twists in her hand.
I release an invisible string, a white balloon floats away.
Mom — stop knocking the phone on the table.
Mom — please look at me here standing outside your window.
She built a family with her bones.
Another balloon floats away.
Mom — would you put the phone down please. I knuckle the glass.
Mom — for the love of God please put the fucking phone down.
Butterflies flying overhead, so many more this spring. The year of my daughter’s mermaid birthday party I didn’t stare skyward looking for wings that weren’t there. I smiled in my cleverness at having covered our dining room walls with iridescent paper and hanging foil starfish from the ceiling with aqua crepe paper. The room became a magical ocean.
Mom — please stop hitting the phone on the table.
A wheelchair is talking to Mom’s ass and if she leans too far forward, her tongue might fall out.
Mom — hang up the phone.
Mom — Mom
I’ll see you tomorrow.
I hang up my pretend phone.
Sometimes, there is nothing more to add than the conversation.
Here’s to Fridays fringed with warm wine, good and red.
am
Long ago, I began what I affectionately titled my ‘kitchen-sinking file’
an ever-growing repository to hold my murdered darlings —
the words I couldn’t jettison into the infinite, all-powerful,
sometimes destructive, and often just downright crappy
void of invisible voices
For this first short reconstructed piece, I wanted an environmental theme — Though the merged thoughts are depressing, this was an enjoyable exercise to do. I hope to create a few more of these pieces in the future.
Reconstruction 1:
NATURE VS US
we seem to be fighting against her
only one of us can emerge victorious
I.
while we busy ourselves engraving our legacies into granite
the concrete angel arms waiting for our bones fade away
beneath the ebb and flow of our disbelief
II.
DELETED as we delete the things we detest
III.
beyond the horizon, where the hot lands submerge
he rolls his great mane to rest upon the blackened grass south of the Sahara
the great space around him vanishing as he sleeps
IV.
slipping and whipping down the burning slide
saddled to a cement slab in sun dried: Any Town,
Earth County
ZipZapped000
V.
obfuscators of earth’s guardianship whose clasped hands grip limitless wealth
(go ahead, toss those deposit boxes and time capsules into the rising sea)
…and they tossed their wishing well coins
VI.
sometimes our beasts go silent
sometimes our beasts escape
most often they starve to death
despite their accumulated knowledge
VII.
long ago, a pregnant virgin cradled my childhood faith
VIII.
I must remember skating on Papa’s ice pond, and I must always pray for spring
——————————————————————————————-
captured footnote: X——-X
entry: byte.non–f (fire drive destroyed 2025/alt recovery file cap 219) 5Z 7K 24X: date doc//
October of the 6th route//2030
——-
archive:context txtvolume79033cvx130..:///Rational science had been crushed beneath the Mad Believers (4fT99)//and those by their side squatted on the world… during this period, fear and hate thrived and love un-lived
Entry200060002324//eventually The Mad Belief (ipsumibidMXCII1112) was forgotten ///recollected during nature’s self-purge/mankind no longer present… ———- end entry…datapoint…X
recording 54567 —–someone screaming on the floating island
collect years, savaged roots, where are you all???end transmis
/’’’tend the children well/’’’’’ they begged, sow seeds, plant saplings
you there – apologize for unsalvageable soil. unusable water
earth’s clock solar-powered
no backup
no backward
angels’ concrete dissolved
Hi there,
How I wish there was more love flooding the world rather than tidal waves.
Nonetheless, I’ve anchored the drywall in warm hues.
(Blue DragonUmp latex satin too depressing)
Here’s a brush of autumn color for your chilled porch.
artwork created a few years back, updated recently (snake & squirrel created with Prisma & watercolor marker, snake background created with Canva/fun program:))
anntogether 