Note to Heaven

4
Note to Heaven
Few words strike the heart like the truth.

It has been so long since you left.
Tell me, how could something stab you in your heart?
Remember when you brought your son to New York City?
You were happy when you left, holding his hand, waving
from the train.  Grandmother told me, “He looked like a
gangster.”  I guess you seldom wore a suit.

Remember the apple tree, pear, and cherry… they are
all dead too.  The house is getting old, run down, but
I still visit.  Did they call it Goose Hill in 1928?
I wish you were walking with me, talking to me, holding
my hand when I was a child.  I never knew you.

Women in the neighborhood work, wear pants, and
drive cars.  Some don’t believe in marriage, or children,
and some women choose to have children without
a husband.  You had your marriage planned:  three days
and you were married.

I wonder if you felt pain, as Grandmother, the night
your son died?  That was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it?
Now, so many people have passed away, or they live alone
without family or friends.

I still want to know – how did something stab your heart?
Remember when you told the boys not to climb the old
water tank, but they didn’t listen.  The brick building in the
alley, the one where fruit was stored, it still stands;  as children
we etched our name on brick.

Did you know you were leaving?  Did you?
People commute to New York City by Amtrak, in no time.
Trains move fast.  And, no one makes home made wine, or
gathers on a Sunday for a feast around the old maple table.
Were you sad, when you had to leave?  Did you know?

Did someone stab you in your heart? Or, was it really a crate?
Down Street is empty, stores you would remember are torn
down.  That railroad bridge crossing Erie Boulevard
near your home on Green Street is still there; but someone
robbed the sign, the city designated your green house by the
old tracks, historical.

You were a good man, an honest man with a family.
Did you watch from heaven when the boys sat around
the table and burned the mortgage?  It was the best day of
their lives.

Grandmother never placed a thing in the bow window
where you laid inside a casket.  They drained your
blood into a tub, in your own bathroom.

Your friend, the one blown up in his car in front of a
hotel, he was on his way to testify on your behalf?  He
must be with you now.  All you did was work hard, and
deliver fruit;  but the fruit man did not want to pay.

4 Comments
  1. Patricia Florio says

    Similiar memories haunt me. I’ve written a book, recently published, called “My Two Mothers”, there’s a chapter of my grandparents travel from Sicily to American, for the same reasons, he didn’t want to pay. It’s on Amazon.com and kindle.

    1. Nancy Duci Denofio says

      What a wonderful bit of news. First thank you for reading this – and secondly, I have to get your book on my kindle! I just purchased my second the Kindle Fire for trips. My novel, as I look at it, has to be edited which is taking me longer, since it is in three consecutive books, and I am ghost writing for some one local right now. But I am sure your words will strike home, from Sicily to America, and guess what, I have an Irish mother who lived downstairs from a Sicilian Grandmother. LOL It is filled with sadness, shock, laughter, and live. Have a wonderful holiday. Sincerely and thanks! Nancy

  2. Ronnie says

    Reading of your roots make me feel right in that era. In my military days, been to both Sicily and Ireland. IMO, I think your mom’s place gets the nod……….but just barely.

  3. Nancy Duci Denofio says

    Oh, I understand you were the lover of the home made fudge, just for Ronnie! And, she would stand at the window overlooking Seneca Street and call out when you arrived. She wanted to be sure your fudge had hardened the way you liked it. But then again, I do recall the cellar, when Mom was away and you and my brother hiding in the little room after stealing her cigarettes. Once my brother told me to take a drag, I nearly died on the spot, and all I did was blow out not in, and you laughed. Remember Duci Lanes? And all the uneven bowling balls rolling down cracked cement? Yes, I think I have myself another story. Always Hugs – Nancy

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