The World Changed on Monday
Grandmother had to be
dancing upstairs in her
kitchen – her radio blaring.
Her friends arrived –
they all talked, half English –
my mother said,
“It’s too much noise.”
But, the noise never stopped.
Father, he invested in a
bigger radio – more noise,
unlike grandmother –
following the death of my father’s
father – it was tradition
to remove all the tubes
from the big – radio situated in
the parlor – respect –
father never listened
to “War of the Worlds.”
The day father’s father
died, it had to be the
worst day of his life. . .
His father dying in
the marriage bed, his head
resting on his pillow –
a pillow stitched with
grandmother’s hands
“I Love You,” in Italian.
My grandfather, his head
resting on the pillow,
whispered to his son,
his last request. . .
“One more cup of water
before I die.”
Grandmother paying the
milkman on the front
porch – suddenly my father ran
down the steps – he
never shed a tear –
filled with fear. . .
He grabbed his
mother’s arm, pulled
her away – pulled her
up the front stairs
into his father’s room.
My father’s baby brother
sank to the floor –
near the stained
woodwork – in the doorway
of his father’s
room, and his middle
son held the empty cup
of water.
Grandmother fell on top
of my grandfather, buried her
head into his feather pillow.
