Traditional Paradise

I have faith in you,
fraternizing with the neighbors
etched in photos of
Dad's days--
eating watermelon,
killing black snakes,
making the square plot of land
his domain.

When I was eight
his friends came to do the
Cha-Cha on the Spanish tiling
in the basement,
galvanizing cheer upon red-padded chairs,
old printer's stools,
his claim-to-fame.

On summer nights like these we chased
fireflies to our heart's content,
our dreams alive,
always on course toward a family circle.
We were quarantined when we all had
the chicken pox,
it was the day-and-age when vaccines were
sweeping the country,
our glands were like a gold-tooth.

When I was fourteen,
I staged a sleep-over pow-wow
that filled the air with guitar music.
More than a dozen children with guitars,
it was a summer happening.
Old Londoner's later visited us,
a part of our old homestead
as if it were a ticky-tack souvenir itself.

The genuine adventures can never really
be handed over,
I just get a feel for blindly spilling them.
There is a son missing now, too,
and his death hampers happy days.
The tale is the long end of the kite's.
We stand not though in misery,
over three generations of graves,
we have become numbed with pride and
lament.
I heard the lovely voice of my sister-in-law
gayly saying, "Let's all go over to my
Restaurant, "Stella's", just before
his devastating car crash this May.
Sadly, I'll be crying in my beer for a
long time.

Yet. After all,
I live with a man who eats my soft
tomatoes and swells in my Parmesan.
I wash his shirts to find quilted triangles
in the lining,
a sign that he is being taken care of.
As I press my fingers to them,
I take stock in the possibility of
drawing them in the sand,
thus,
another round of traditional paradise
will measure our love in time.