The Name He Did Not Want

My uncle had a name he did not want.
Youngest of six, baptized,
Salvatore.

In the garden of Sicily
he pruned war memories,
trimming umbrellas of citrus.
Mediterranean breezes
diluted the heat of bread ovens
he stoked for hungry armies.
His dream – wedding childhood sweetheart,
her skin, silky smooth as the milk of almonds.
Instead, his mother yoked him to his name,
family responsibilities.

In a quarry
along the stony veins of the Niagara Escarpment,
he carved a new life.
One by one, he summoned brothers and sisters.
While they struggled,
English words danced on his tongue.
Interpreter and chauffer,
he served la famiglia.

As quarry foreman,
my uncle favored relatives
until challenged by the padrone.
Worn out by family demands
Salvatore lost his temper and threatened his superior
with the barrel of a shotgun.

After prison, he was content
laboring night shifts in a city,
away from the name he did not want,
Salvatore, savior.