A poem by Tony Zurlo
In a dream I got an email from my father's
sister's little girl. Don't delete yet: allow
me to interpret my dream, as the song
says, "with a little help from my friends."
I recall that sometime in the last century
a gathering of cousins, aunts, uncles,
grandmas and grandpas, infiltrated
by a few second and third cousins.
We spilled onto a yard with endless tables
of antipasto, fruit, and sweets; I was Joe
Dimaggio and you were Sophia Loren,
uncles tossed bocce balls and horseshoes.
I remember you, because we'd visit
your family on vacation trips north,
I remember being jealous of your
dad's Italian gestures and accent.
I remember your mom's intense care
for grandma. I remember only a little.
I was little and my world was small,
but to me you lived in a fantasy land.
Your world came storied by immigrants,
nurtured by an endless variety of foods.
Your world came wrapped with ribbons
of vivacious emotions and bear hugs.
A platoon of family protected your world,
congregating on holidays for games, for
stretching life, for nurture and renewal,
presided over by grandpa and grandma.
Imagine; in a dream I saw your face, your
art, your smile, and a few mental images
and chatter and laughter lost decades ago
seemed like yesterday's misplaced visit.