Now That You’ve Gone So Long

I remember running on freshly mown grass
breathing in the rich green scent
as I fell welcomed into your tireless arms.
I remember roses, mums
bleeding hearts
fluttering gently on the warm wind.
There was an open field of cattails
a narrow trail
where I would scurry off to the corner store
dodging grasshoppers
butterflies
and the cicadas whose secret song
broke the monotonous summer silence.

Across the road
in the corn patch
we'd sometimes play bocce
after Sunday spaghetti and meatballs
while further down
in a wooded lot at the cul-de-sac
we'd risk the sting of poison ivy
on hot, thick July days
to pick wild blueberries
for our afternoon snack.

On Jericho Turnpike
stood the road-stand
where you and Grandpa
dipped out Italian ices.
In between hot-rods
and drive-in bound station wagons
we'd sit playing cards
just the three of us
against the cricket-still night
the deep frightening darkness
you never seemed to mind.

You were invincible
with your saints and candles
the way you plucked beetles
off the leaves of your well-tended plants
while I tagged along at your side
watching you make raviolis
or helping to jar the rich tomato sauce
you cooked fresh from your famous garden.

In those days
Long Island was bare lonesome backwoods
and the sparse country lanes
seemed empty and dreary.
But your big, bountiful smile
your deep, hearty voice
would scatter the cold mist out to sea.

Once you led us to the chicken coop
surprised us with tiny Easter chicks.
A year later
in the big white house
you prepared a marvelous meal
we kids refused to eat.

One night
you sent me to the road-stand
to fetch a pint of ice cream.
I fought every midnight monster
along that treacherous path
in chivalrous obedience
to my lady's request.

But always
on snow-lit Christmas nights
or Easter sunny Sundays
you would magically transform the world
warming chestnuts in the oven
or watching us search for hidden treasures
among the green blades of dewy grass.

Long Island is covered over now.
The road-stand is gone
so too the field where I used to play.
Jericho Turnpike has puffed its ruthless way
like a wolfish intruder
through what was once a quiet, country town.
And in place of hot-rods
and firefly-speckled nights
neon signs pierce the evening sky.

But you
will always be:
gugutza* in hand
your precious sacred heart
a fabulous, wonderland fairy
on this hard island of highways and shopping malls.

Just thought I'd let you know
now that you've gone so long.



*squash in Sicilian language; the word is spelled cucuzza but the voiceless velar [k] becomes voiced in pronunciation.