If a kind wizard granted me a wish, I would choose to go back for a day to my childhood home. I would insist that I arrive in time for the first breakfast of the new year.
January 1, 1958, 9 AM, 201st Street, Bronx, New York. I am ten years old.
Snow is falling outside, but our apartment is toasty warm and filled with the aroma of coffee and cinnamon. My mother, my brother Christopher, my sister Valerie, and I are sitting at the table looking at a mountain of oven-fresh sweet buns and poppy seed rolls. We kibitz and talk about friends, teachers, skinned knees, and schoolyard crushes. We are all so young… young enough to take everything for granted.
Tony
Tony, my mother’s closest brother, drops in on his way home from church. (He is tall and lanky, the brim of his hat is turned up in front in a casual, almost comical way. He whistles when he walks and always sides with us kids. He is our favorite uncle. )
We shift our chairs to make room for him at the table. Mom sets a plate in front of him and puts a fresh pot of coffee on the stove – and the morning continues.
At our request, Mom and Tony tell us stories about how things used to be. We listen again about the storm at sea that our Grandfather braved when he sailed from Italy to New York in 1892. They tell mostly funny stories about uncles and aunts in their younger days. And when something is not meant for our ears, they effortlessly slide from English into Italian. (I regret that we kids never learned the language). I have heard these stories before, but the repetition is comforting.
Breakfast lasts until noon when mom invites time back into the room by saying she must start the sauce for tonight’s pasta. “A good sauce,” she held, “needs three kinds of meat and at least three hours to cook.”
It’s good to be home.
Comment