1954 BENEATH A PULL STRING

1954 Beneath a Pull String

Your thumb curled back,
Lick it…
Lick it…
Turn pages of your bible
while you sit on garments,
pressing them.
Everything is home made -
curtains above a radiator
move in the night. . .
back and forth, back and forth
your apron covers a navy
blue dress – you must be
going to church – but right
now your are stirring homemade
cocoa –
stir it - stir – stir –

Grandmother’s footsteps reach
the landing on the second
floor, her voice calls out
“Grand daughter, it’s time”
little legs bend as hands help
to climb a twisting staircase.

You sat there beneath a pull string
a string that hit your head each
time you sat to join me for my
morning cocoa. On your back
a red sweater, half buttoned,
holes at your elbow, on the
left side.

You twisted in your chair
back and forth, now I know
it was to get comfortable, and
you smiled.

You were never tall but the
string, the one to pull for
light in your kitchen kept
swinging back and forth.

You would connect a long
tube, but now I know it was
a cord to your radio – every
afternoon and night – listening
to church songs.

Often I noticed your ankles
were never thin? Never did
ask you why?

You would connect another
long cord to a toaster, to the
pull string for light and music.
Your curled thumbs flipped toast
from side to side as you open
up to investigate, to see if the
toast was done.

Strange how a cord so
insignificant would be a
memory connecting you and me.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved 2011

A STORAGE GARAGE

A Storage Garage

Our yellow garage
a padlock – foggy windows
near yellow tulips growing
in our garden –

Told to stay away from
those foggy windows
I tried to sneak through
the flowers – tip toeing

Where was Grandma?
She wasn’t in the window
watching me play…
she would be yelling now

My shoes covered in mud
Grandmother watered every
morning.

What – exactly was kept
inside our garage?
What – exactly was kept
such a secret for a lifetime?

Asked Daddy why did you
own a garage - no one owned
a car – back then…

Heard grandfather once
kept bananas safe for the
fruitman, away from the
summers sun…

You told me –
and I remember.

You told me your father -
grandfather - had a job
working for a fruit company –
for the fruit men.

You told me –
and I remember.

But – you told me your
father – grandfather –
he was killed working –
for those fruit men…

You told me –
and I remember

The fruit men killed him -
Did your father –
grandfather –
destroy – all of his bananas?

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved

I Still See Grandmother Wave

I STILL SEE GRANDMOTHER WAVE

Her curtains always yellow
even in winter – she had to
see through them, through
glass – she had to know
everything going on below,
on Seneca Street – when
the street lamps turned on
and Father wasn’t inside –
that’s when buckets of
water were tossed from her
window with yellow curtains
over his head.

Her radiator hissed – and
her thumb curled – way back
and she would lick it as she
turned each page of her bible.
But, it was me – me sitting in
front of that radiator begging
for cookies from her cookie
jar – she continued to pray
aloud and still licked her thumb.

Today, I wish you were still
sitting, facing that window, still
breathing – still telling me to
read “John” from the “New
Testament.”

Instead, everything changed.
I seldom walk up the stairway –
I seldom gaze up to the window –
but every now and then –
I still see Grandmother wave.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

NO ONE CAME TO VISIT

no one came with flowers
no one came with pink
balloons or candy
no one brought pink dresses
to fit a new born –

mother, she knew

no one believed
or wanted to see a child
who entered this world
a little over a pound. . .
medical men told her,
“She won’t survive the
night.”

mother, she knew

she knew when two men
visited
she knew only one – but
knew of the other
one man sat to her right
one man to her left.

those visitors did not
bring balloons or candy
or a pink dress for their
new grand daughter –
a baby who would fit into
their palm

a baby with tubes in
temples –
a body to small and
needles too large

both men died before
the birth of her child

her father spoke to her,
her father in law
listened. . .

“Don’t worry she will
survive and make you
proud.”

medical men entered
her room and mother
smiled.
medical men warned
her babies this small
do not survive –

mother, she knew –

daddy entered, she smiled.
told him their little girl
would survive
he pulled a chair up to her
bed, held her hand, and
listened

he probably smiled back
he must have warned her
to face the truth
mother, stubborn,
she believed

a few days passed, and
the medical men told her
again –
a week went by, and she
smiled
two weeks, and the medical
men stopped talking of
death –

mother peered through
glass at her baby –
lying inside a metal box –
inside with tubes and monitors
with no one to touch a child’s
grey skin.

She watched as a chest
was forced to expand
she prayed to herself –
she waved good bye -
thanking the medical men –
telling them she would be back

every day – to watch a child
who barely opened her eyes

there was no touching,
or cuddles, no wrapping
of tiny fingers around a her own,
no legs kicking, or laughing
when a child yawned, thinking
it was a smile

no one talked about their
little girl –
no one asked about the color
or her hair – her eyes or her
personality
no one asked if she looked
like mother or father . . .
no one talked.

mother, she believed

every day – from summers
end into dead leaves of fall
and onto ice on city walks,
she too walked up a hill
to the hospital to stare
through glass –
her walk home, eyes filled
with tears, she recited an
Irish prayer

every day after work
father walked up the hill
to stare at his child he
could not hold –
laying naked inside a metal
bed with tubes still
attached to her forehead.

he watched as nurses
tapped the soles of her
feet – to keep her awake
to suck on a miniature
bottle – she began to eat

It was the day before
Christmas - a snow
filled sky – when news
arrived – she could come
home.

three months and ten
days after her birth
she weighed five pounds

nurses wrapped her
in tiny booties
a white undershirt
a small pink dress
snuggled up inside pink
blankets

with open arms mother
held her little girl
peered into her open eyes
pinched her little hands
and feet

mother, she knew

on Christmas day inside a
neighbor’s car they brought
their little girl home

she looked at my father
and said, “I told you so,
she would survive.”

and, there beneath a
Christmas tree – I laid
inside a red wagon –
my older brother next to me
a red bow tied around my
forehead
Christmas and I finally
made it home.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

LOST STORIES

LOST STORIES

he was sweeping
in front of the bar
told him my name
his arm’s opened
“Jesus Mary and Joseph”
repeating my name –

two years ago we
stopped to say hello -
he was younger
looked a lot like Mama -
his voice – sounded
like Mama

he said things she
would have said –
we all knew Mama
It seemed she fell
into his body – took
over his voice

took on talking just
like her, even my
husband stared my
way – then he reached
to hold my hand across
the table – he never
reached before -

now his face - hallow
his walk uneven
his pants falling from
his waist – tied with
rope

wore a baseball cap
never saw him in a
baseball cap – but
he still told all his
stories

still swore he knew
everything about
everyone in town –
then told us he was
opening the bar – been
closed for sometime
but for his son – telling
once again his Mamas
wish – he would never
drink

promised her he’d
never drink, never take
a sip – he never did –
but served it well inside
a bar where a bear’s head
was stuffed, and deer’s
eyes followed you

showed us around the
old place, told us he
refused a new sink –
liked the open kind
put cleaning stuff in
clear sight

his blue eyes a different
shade of blue – half
closed as if they were
tired – as if a shade -
closing life in front of him

he called Mama’s
home his – when he
was in the service
took a train and walked
up to the avenue

he called it home
when he reached our
yellow house – before
I was born –
it was Mama who

paid for him – to
send him to college –
going to be someone
someday – she would
say

so he went to college
and Mama paid -
he opened the bar
taught his son to ride
a bike – forgot about
the money Mama gave

did he recall all the days
he popped into the house
and Mama fed him –
and Grandmother
listened as he spoke
of sixteen children –

he talked about his
recent bout with
cancer – we never
knew – showing off
twenty six stitches
in the back of his
head

we never knew he
was sick or had
cancer – he bragged
about how quickly
he healed, he told
us, “no scars.”

he talked about his
wife who doesn’t
remember much –
she’s a baby once
again – Alzheimer’s
she has a brain
disease, he told us
but getting better

he insists on no
nursing home, and
continued to say his
children were coming
home – one to run
the bar – another to
live up on the mountain
where he built a camp

he owns fifty six acres
bought it when he
placed a bet on a horse
and never did bet again –
he told us
he told us he’s got most
of them coming home

his children
he kept telling us how
great his wife was – and
ignored the past – when
she spent months away –
but he loved her, anyway
and brought up her baby
as his own

he seemed to forget
about the gossip
about the time she flew
away like a bird with
his own brother – and
now she removes her
clothes – in the living
room, when people are
visiting

I remember some
brothers of ten forgave
them, and others never
did – and the girls – some
never walked into his
bar – or smiled or looked
him straight into his eyes

he seemed to forget
about the house up on
the hill - Grandmother
lived – when she tried
hard to play a piano –
she thought she was
good

her children listened to
the same song over and
over – the more they
sang the harder she
pounded on those keys –

I watched as my own
Father stared at him,
remembering the days
he spent sitting with my
Mama at the bar

Father mumbled over
and over about how long
he sat, talking – but he
never did give free drinks
to the family – since all
that lived in that small
town, was family.

my Father talked about
the slate from Vermont
and he managed to get
it to the bar, my uncle,
because men would do
anything for a beer

his pool table still
sits in the center of
the room – I recall
the feet of small children
above the bar – back
stairs

his wife – her dark hair
beautiful she was – and
now missing all the
memories she made

he talked about his
cancer and how he
asked the doctors
“so what’s up?”
didn’t get it all,
at the top of the spine. . .

he said, “if I take the
stuff – makes me sick –
what will it do doc?”
he told us nothing –
so he said good bye
he’ll live as long as
god wants him to –

who would think
about his wife –
forgetting life – and
who thought he
probably will die
first – and the children
home, how pleased
he seemed.

he said goodbye with
a grin on his face,
promised when he
died, I would get his
seven books he wrote
about the bar –

his smile grew – his
eyes perked up – and
he knew he had one
hell of a story to tell,
and I asked him –

“Why have you waited.”

he never answered only
told me he picked
overgrown grass
around the grave stones
of all the kids, his Mama
and Papas too. And he
makes the sign of the
cross when he sees my
brothers name at the foot
of my Mamas father’s
grave, he too - talks to Mama

Nancy Duci Denofio