This strange
place
In sicily after the war. after the songs of mussolini. his capture and death at the hands of his own men. after the allies rolled into villages. in the predawn men meet in piazza town squares and wait for local farmers to choose extra hands. like school boys waiting to get picked on the favoured team. how many times passed over before the rumours of l’america sound appealing? the streets are paved in gold. there is work for everyone. returning women gloating in markets telling stories of men sending money home. how long before it’s your turn? your wife’s last kiss. the picture of your infant son imprinted on the palm of your hand. you board a ship. one suitcase. one pair of shoes. your surprise at finding out you are seasick.
met by trees. the first signs of this country. the smell of a strange place. the sound of a language unknown. following a line of short men. the barren landscape of lost dreams and he suddenly realizes that this is a place he has not even seen in nightmares. his knees weak and eyes fearful. here he is a boy. a cramped house. the woman with a deep voice shows him his room. enough for the shape of one mattress. for one dog. he meets the man who will use this bed during the day while he works.
first snowfall a dream. the beautiful soft floating sky. like slow falling cheese. he misses his wife. the cold wraps around his bones like leather. like the grip of death. made to dig the street for sewer pipe while people in fancy cars drive by staring. we are the others here, our language, our skin unpleasant, the way we move our hands between words, the way we stand and talk on street corners, against the law here. WOP. this word. the first time hits him like a wet slap to the face. he writes to his wife and tells her about the beautiful trees the falling flakes of white powder. he tells her not to come. she doesn’t listen.
enough to buy a house. a car. plant a garden. your wife takes a job sewing dresses. your son grows up with two tongues. two brains. he wears this new country, strange language, like a jacket. everything is all right. everything is in its place. in the darkness of your basement near the bottom of a glass of wine you are happy to have made things better.