remembering Carol Fizzarro

for some reason, from out of the ether,

she flashed into my brain

as the refrigerator door

was closing in that slow, deliberate pantomime:

“let it close by itself with a little push” attitude.

a small victory when it works.

every conceivable preparation

for the morning’s activities was

completed without a playbook

as the new order of things

was the same as the old order of things;

this goes here, that goes there,

turn this on, turn that off and pour.

I remember Carol’s father, Nick Fizzarro,

a big guy, power-loom mechanic, whose prowess

at the bocce lanes was well known in the neighborhood.

Jannette Fizzarro, Nick’s wife, was...for the lack

of a more accurate description,–– 

a genuine Italian beauty, lying somewhere between

Virna Lisi and Monica Vitti, although to measure

that distance, higher mathematics would be needed.

the refrigerator door nearly made it to closure, and a slight

nudge was applied to seal the deal.

but beyond her perfectly round face,

I couldn’t remember anything about Carol Fizzarro.