By Kathleen MacGregor
I remember my grandmother’s house
And the smell of tomato sauce, spaghetti – steam warmth
and espresso bitter and promising.
I watched my grandmother do the dishes.
Her hands were always moving.
Sometimes she’d sit to grate
Parmesean cheese and she’d be resting.
Uncles and aunts would come there and
My grandfather would cook too.
He had been a chef and before that a
Cook in the Italian Navy.
He hired a barber to pull out all his teeth
So he could get out of service.
That’s the blood I have in me.
I remember the arguing sound of their voices-
Secret glances in my direction.
They spoke Italian and my father
Was keeping that from me.
He was a high school Italian and Spanish teacher
But wouldn’t teach me.
I think he was protecting me from something
But I don’t know what.
As soon as we got to my grandmother’s house,
She’d take me back
To her bedroom and
Wiping her hands on her apron
she’d slide open the closet door and
Pull down from the high shelf
A coffee can full of candy and money.
She’d give me some.
Then with my face full of bliss
I’d go out to the kitchen and listen to the talk.
She knew when I had fallen in love
For the first time
Because I didn’t want the candy.
Her name was Rosa.