Yesterday We Were Eight

My Father’s Braces

There, wadded up in the pocket of Patrick’s bathrobe, hanging in Ivonne’s closet, in the Old Town, on the island he so loved, were his suspenders.

Memories surfaced: His dapper look, bearing his age with dignity and class.

New memories emerged: Packing the boxes, sorting out the things people wanted, the things to donate; sending shoes to one sister, shirts to another, sweaters to both; delivering to Ivonne the robe and that set of braces. Continue reading “Yesterday We Were Eight”

Farewell on Sullivan Street 1960 (by Patrick)

we won’t let you go!
tackling me at the knees.

gretchen is laughing
at this new game with daddy.
jennifer is older and cries
her mother’s panicked eyes
telling her it’s no joke

with my books bundled in twenties
i lash myself down the stairs,
toss them into the vw bug and drive mari
to our roach-infested
love nest.

tenth street is a bongo jungle
where we live in sweet rhythmic sin,
joy swirling behind us
as we race toward the tawdry
end so surely up the road.

their arms hobble me yet,
though i now bundle my years
by the quarter century
and still await, with dread,
the accumulating tears.

Deya 2006