I just returned from a visit to my large, loud, loving Italian-Polish family in the Cleveland suburbs. As we often do, we told stories and looked at old family photos.
A poem came today about one of the photos: a photo of my brother and cousin, in their t-shirt and tank top on a humid summer day. I was four or five when the photo was taken, and I remember that day in the park with my large brood of a family with clarity.
Even more, I remember how that day felt. It lives in my body, still.
What we see
There' a photo on my phone –
my brother, five, or six, my cousin, four or five
as they sit on the fender of my aunt's car,
the hatch up.
My cousin holds a cupcake in his hand
and they both are smiling.
I remember that day in the park –
I remember coloring with my cousins in
the trunk of the hatchback.
I remember my white sun bonnet and how my
aunt's boyfriend, José, teased me and wore
my hat on his head.
When I look at the photo,
I can feel the warm rays of the sun
on my sticky skin, and the warm
thrum in my belly: what I hold
from that day.
When my aunt sees the photo,
she sees my cousin's crooked bangs
and she laughs –
“I wish I hadn't cut his hair myself.”
I don't see his crooked bangs.
I see the light in his eyes, the way they
crinkle when he smiles, the way he
sits, shoulder to shoulder, with my brother.
I see the innocence we all carry,
the innocence we lose.
I see the innocence we return to –
and the way we do this for each other.
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