I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue,
The kitchen’s brown and white floor tiles – cold on bare, little, pink toes in the early morning,
Gray light filtering through embroidered curtains,
Casting an emerald jewel over the sink where the shamrock stained glass hung.
I remember the table under the windows topped with a lamp, pristine cloth, and occupied, melamine ashtray
And fearing the swipe of Inkspot’s front claws as he perched on the table with prideful defiance,
A gleaming panther in the cold sun, daring enough to live a little in spite of the photos displayed on the wall beside him-
An homage to pets long gone.
Shannon the Great Pyrenees liked to sleep in the walkway between the kitchen and dining room,
Our languid polar bear babysitter.
We’d climb over her, she- a mountain of white fur and a waggling pink tongue,
But she never seemed to mind us when we buried our little hands in her fluff,
Or scaled over her one chubby leg at a time, running in circles around the first floor.
We’d sneak slices of yellow American cheese from the refrigerator in the laundry room
And watch cartoons in Brepa’s old chair,
Presided over by the oil painting of the Madonna and child,
But we never let them choose the show,
Their gazes clouded with many decades worth of nicotine stains.
I wonder what they liked best on Nickelodeon.
We knew how to turn the silver dials on the brown TV set
Because there were limited options that we could wrap our molding brains around.
We bounced on the squashy, springy seat cushion of the arm chair,
A pile of giggles and twirled pigtails,
If we were lucky enough for Aunt Arlene to curl our hair the night before.
I remember the hi-fi along the back wall of the dining room,
The one with my mom’s baby teeth marks in it
And the concealed Ouija board beneath.
I remember studying the countless framed photographs up the wall along the staircase
And Aunt Arlene telling me not to complain about getting my tangled hair brushed
Because Natalie didn’t complain about getting her hair brushed.
There was a mirror by the front door,
But I’d have to jump to see anything other than the reflection of the ceiling in it.
Shadow was a stray tabby who’d visit from time to time for a snack.
“She made her way around the block”, the parents would say,
Whatever that meant, I’d think, trying to decipher the mysteries of adult conversation.
Shadow had kittens in a box on the porch one time.
“Mine” was gray and had six toes on his paws, but he died quick,
I forget his name.
I never thought about death before that,
But I guess Jersey City’s a tough enough place,
Let alone for a fresh feline.
At the time, I thought it had something to do with his extra toes and was relieved to have the normal amount.
The living room had the quilted, Irish hanging tapestry, embroidered with names of family and friends.
It was also where we named Sunshine,
The orange tabby who replaced Inkspot once his photo was added to the display in the kitchen.
We were four little girls laying on the floor, swinging our feet back and forth in the air,
Deep in thought in a matter of such importance,
Round cheeks propped up on plump palms.
I remember watching Sister Act and My Fair Lady a lot
Because those were the only VHS tapes available in the house.
I remember Katherine, Janice, Carol, and the McGinns.
I remember holding my breath when the Marlboros announced their presence on the porch,
Tom’s banana toothpaste in the morning and at night,
And squeaky clean hair.
There were St. Patrick’s Day Birthday parties
And the train set beneath the Christmas tree –
The shelf in the second floor bathroom- overflowing with haircare products,
Car rides with no seatbelt in the middle,
The tiny American Flag on the antenna, flapping in the wind,
The Garden Song on a loop-
We are made of dreams and bones.
The greatest of the Greats
Had patience for us beyond what she had for our parents.
She curled our hair
And loved us to pieces finer than the scrambledest eggs you’ve ever eaten.
I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue
With a life so much bigger than I could see.
The view was higher than I could jump.
I’d have to grow to appreciate it.
I’m tall enough now to look in the mirror and look the past straight on in the present,
Able to recognize the magic of a moment,
The lasting quality of the fleeting,
The memory of the lost.
The feel of cold tiles,
The scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray,
And ringlet curls-
Links to a past, present life that seems so far away now.
cozy does it 