Sicilian Proverb
Inoperable cataracts had rendered Nonno Michele blind. He spent his time in his room at Heritage Green staring at the ceiling, often gibbering incoherently to himself. One day while visiting him, he refused to acknowledge me. Cousin Angelina was also there and told me she’d received the same treatment. ‘Maybe he no longer hears us or recognizes our voices,’ I offered. ‘I hear fine,’ he barked, startling us. ‘Then why don’t you say something, Nonno?’ Angelina asked. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Well, I hope you get some rest this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Where there’s hope there’s death,’ he said quietly.
Because of You
Cousin Mario’s Sicilian zucchini had achieved hitherto unimagined proportions. Each one looked like a Jolly Green Giant’s leg minus the foot. A group of them could deeply disquiet an uninitiated individual. One day I asked him if the secret rested in the magnificent pergola he’d built to hang the zucchini, or some special nutrient he fed them. Or had he purchased genetically superior seeds online and not told anyone? ‘Nah, none of that,’ Mario said. ‘The reason they’re huge is because I take good care of them. I talk to them. Stroke them. And I play Tony Bennett for them.’
The Dame From Utica
Domenic, my mother’s connected cousin, pulled into our driveway one afternoon in his silver Cadillac. He jumped out, straightened his fedora, and went around to open the door for his passenger, a heavily pancaked blonde wearing go-go boots, a low cut fuchsia shift with white cuffs, and four inches of freckled cleavage. Through squinted eyes, she looked a little like Ann Margaret. Domenic introduced her to the family as Tina. ‘Tina’s from Utica,’ he said, kneading her neck. ‘She’s half-Italian but doesn’t speak it.’ Ever the troublemaker, my mother said, ‘How about Tina’s twins, do they speak Italian?’
Muscle
‘Keep quiet,’ Uncle Rocco said upon entering Rick Musitano’s downtown travel agency. He’d asked me to accompany him, didn’t say why. Back for the summer from university, I was jacked from training for football. Anyway, Rick owed Uncle Rocco a few grand for a canceled trip and he’d been ducking him. Rick liked to think of himself as a wise guy, but I’d always thought he was bluffing. ‘I—I have it right here,’ Rick stammered, reaching into his desk and eyeing me warily. ‘Ha, you’re all grown up, kid,’ he added. I nodded. Uncle Rocco nodded and smiled.
About the artist
Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada.
YOU MAY ALSO LIKE…
The Theme of the Week is Crouched Behind Bushes With A Garden Hose
THIS WEEK’S HOROSCOPE by Ben Macnair
Image: Italian-American watching parade on Mott Street8d21698v.jpg
Leave a Reply