-Easter. a quick look with the only known snapshot of the event- 

there are three Italian breads on the table

not including two stick breads, still warm

from Marzilli’s Bakery just off the third base line.

there’s red wine, spaghetti, ravioli

and a large antipasto platter, the stylings of cousin

Celia, younger than most of the gathered, but older than me.

she’s stylish, more contemporary,

has great legs and a warm attitude, with a hot,

but gracious bloodline of Italian and Spanish.

Celia died decades later in a dream when the

Volkswagen we were in, me and cousin Celia,

young again for her appearance in the Beetle dream,

sank to the bottom of a raging river. I survived.

there are dozens of squares of fresh pizza

sprinkled with oregano laid out from Marcucci’s Bakery,

beyond the right field fence and the billboards.

there’s a parakeet working the table, living the life

most parakeets can only dream of. Mary is her name.

her cage has an open door policy and she went missing

the following September when she landed in the gully

of the visiting egg man’s sweaty fedora and once on the outside,

flew like a normal-minded bird across the backyard, and over

the fence of Rachlin’s rusted junkyard, never to be seen again,

and there’s a cat wandering the floor, with the recurring distinction

of being the latest replacement.

this is the house and its company.

I could be nine, or 10. maybe eight years old, and

I can barely be heard above the crazy din of holiday chatter:

“hey! when’s Halloween?”

Bedford Street / 1953 (?)