I watched the meat grinder, as little curls toppled into bowls,
waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper,
then deftly primped and patted
into pockets of cream-coloured pasta.
Birthdays began with food,
a busy, bustling of sauces on the stove,
biscotti in the oven and
dishes in the sink.
We corralled carpenters’ horses into the garden,
then settled them with table tops and white linen.
Amid the vines, a crop of coloured globes
grew overnight, ready to ripen as the sun set.
Revved up by the music of chinking glasses,
we tumbled in and out of chairs tasting
panini and olives while on the run from
cheek-pinching fingers and lipstick kisses.
Lights from the Christmas tree twinkled meekly
inside the house as the blue-black night backdropped
a million stars - some leaving early, shooting off
to other parties when no-one was looking.
Pink-faced men let loose merry belly laughter,
rocking back and forth in wooden chairs –
a host of happy Santas,
telling stories of faraway places.
A music man settled on the verandah
to capture the spotlight
and ladies drew up their skirts a little to dance around him.
Summer moths drawn to his melody.
Then he appeared from out of the darkness,
bolder than my father
but looking just like him – a crisp white shirt
matching his smile, black hair waving at us like a flag to get our attention.
Breathing in through his nose, he kissed the air
and a blazing fire ignited,
a single sizzling candle frothing forth,
all the love in the world.
December was always a time for birthdays in my family – two sisters, my grandfather and me – all December babies. My Nonno often combined his birthday with a celebration of the season and held an outdoor party, a wonderful possibility in the Southern Hemisphere summer Christmas season.
For a child, these parties were something wondrous, and on one or two occasions my father performed the rather risky trick of blowing fire.
This poem is a tribute to the atmosphere of it all, and the wonderful sense of family and community those parties held.
About the Creator
Michèle Nardelli
I write...I suppose, because I always have. Once a journalist, then a PR writer, for the first time I am dabbling in the creative. Now at semi-retirement I am still deciding what might be next.
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