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| ... us ... in the kitchen ... the heart of the home. |
August 30, 1999
Inside my head I can still hear:
Grandma telling me to shut the door in Portuguese.
Priests chanting, sing songing and the congregation responding as one.
Music at the fiestas.
Two languages playing charades.
Grandpa swearing in Italian.
Clinking bowls, cups, forks and knives.
Cousins, everybody's children.
Papa's whispered prayers and the creak-crack of the rocking chair.
The stories -- the tell me again stories -- the pass down to your children stories --
stories that give color to your heritage:
Voices painting pictures of immigrants, stowaways,
crowded boats and lost identities.
Voices that created underground stills camouflaged with chicken coups.
Bootleggers who went to jail and murderers who didn't.
Inside my head I can still smell:
The dampness in the cellar.
Cigars.
Grandma's dress.
Apple pies.
Fava beans, linguica and sweetbread with the eggs cooked in.
Biscotti, cuichidadies and pezellies.
Red sauce boiling and pasta, pasta, pasta.
Inside my head I can still see:
So much vino that uncles forgot who they were.
Hands that talked.
Pin striped suits and tipped fedoras.
Great aunts smiling with bright red lips
and shadowed eyelids through the mesh of netted hats.
Fox furs with the feet still attached.
Aprons and clotheslines.
Candles and statues, holy water and rosary beads.
Poker games, brandy and five o'clock shadows.
I see the women busy ... always.
I see the men in white undershirts and pleated pants - huddled - watching - owning.
In my head I am:
Whole, with first hand remnants of a culture that is a part of me.
A link connecting my children with themselves.
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| ... with my cousin, Diane Souza |
