Abundanza

My grandparents were immigrants . Childhood was in half Italian and half English

Nothing was a statement, a simple sentence of fact

Conversations were discussions, cross examinations, tests of wills, tests of truth, everyone free to express an opinion, a feeling

We were involved and we were evolving

Nothing was average. Everything was special

Everything was examined, inspected, enjoyed, critiqued , savored, baked in a very heated discussion

The yellowness of the flower, the texture of the mozzarella, the bread crust, the neighbors' last argument heard through the walls, the dress the neighbor’s wife wore, the mayor's last speech, the length of time one waited for checkout, the side one slept on, the teacher's comment when she returned the test, the amount of fat the butcher cut off for your neighbor, the fold of the kitchen towels, the faintly hoarse voice—are you ill? t he almost imperceptible wrinkle near the eye because today something made us sad . . .

The sorrow lasted forever, quietly . . . . sometimes shared . . . silently, privately . . . but always respected

Outsiders listening to the heated arguments assumed relationships were dying or dead and a last verbal nail driven into the coffin

But for us, conversations demonstrated how much attention we were paying to each other to the world

And ended in "What do you want for dinner?"

Others saw the heated speech as out of control, a family emotionally unstable, something that needed fixing

It needed nothing.

After dinner conversations deep into the evening, nibbling stray breadcrumbs, listening . . . the gesture of moving a spoon closer to the half empty demi-tasse cup . . . for emphasis when speaking, . . . “e un altra cosa” . . . the thumb and pointer fingers giving the last quarter inch push like punctuation

We discussed everything. We talked to each other. Talking was being.

Being together was a party, a classroom, a confessional, a courtroom, an experiment, an adventure, a journey

Perfection was expected . . . except nobody cared as long as you tried . . . . honestly

Here is a postcard someone sent you, Mother said. Who is it from? I don't know, she said. I didn't look because it was addressed to you.

Being curious was a gift. Being bored was an insult to one’s own intelligence, Mother said.

We were free to think. We were free to feel.

All was always forgiven .

But Outside. Outside was static, myopic, a photo in black and white

“Mind your own business.”

“Why are you getting so upset. Your so emotional.”

“Keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Don’t be rude.”

It is hard to find home in others.