It's 8am and my alarm is always on cue. This late fall day is promising sunshine, despite the cold temperature. I see a ray of sun reflecting from my dresser mirror. I'm smiling on the thought that the forecast did well on it's promise. I lift my head from my pillow and my body follows to sit up on the edge of the bed. The floor is cold as my naked feet make their way to the bedroom window. I cast the champagne drapes aside to take a closer look at the sky, and a sea of blue now appears above the rooftops. The bare trees are the only indication of the season.

Despite the brilliant light, and clear skies, my thoughts go inward, and I begin to feel the sadness. He's gone. My love. My life. My eyes begin to well up, and it's hard to swallow. I don't see the ray in the mirror, but only a weary face looking back at me, the pain embracing my whole body like daggers, and a loud cry comes up from my throat. My legs buckle under me, and I hit the floor hard. I bury my face in my arms, as my wet tears cover them. It hurts so much. I turn my head to rest on my bent knees and I see something shiny by my right foot. I reach for the dime as I sniffle to keep my nose from running. I stand up abruptly and I kiss the dime. My gratitude is overflowing. Thank you for being here with me, my boy.

I met ‘the Godfather’. I mean the actual Godfather. Don Antonio Monteleone. He wasn’t as I had pictured him, but rather a man of miniscule stature, with soft hazel-green eyes, and a warm smile. His handshake was firm; his hands calloused from the last twenty years of carpentry work he had done. Imagine that – a working Don. I sat down with him at an antiquated table in a small café a few blocks from Antonio’s home in Avellino, Naples. A rather robust man, and patron of the café greeted us with a hearty embrace and began to speak in his native tongue to Antonio. I listened intently but could only make out a few words, like ‘bene’, ‘grazie’, and ‘mangiare’, the latter the most important of the three. After all, eating was more of a social event to the Italians, than it was a basic requirement. And when in Italy…

A few minutes passed when the patron summoned one of his baristas to bring us an espresso. He turned to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He leaned in and told me in an animated voice that ‘anyting you lika, tella me’, and with a soft chuckle, he looked at Antonio again, and left us to make his way to the bar. Antonio’s eyes followed him to the bar, and then he looked at me and nodded. I took that as my cue to begin. I reached for my voice recorder in my backpack. I carefully placed it on the table and explained briefly to Antonio that I would record his story and for him to start from the beginning. With his nod of approval, I pushed the ‘record’ button.

Antonio was born on June 1st, 1936 in a small town in Naples, Italy. He was the youngest of six, and one of two boys. The other boy, Giovanni Jr., was the eldest, and assumed the role of patriarch, as had been custom in the small villages.

His parents, Giovanni Sr. and Maria owned a great deal of land in the small town of Avellino, particularly Maria whose family name was well known amongst the dwellers in the village. They had hired people to work on the land, growing crops and tending to the farm animals, all the while conducting their business so that it was profitable for them, even if at others’ expense. Maria was the dominant one in the relationship and most of her labourers dealt with her exclusively. Giovanni Sr. wasn’t a tall man and diminutive in bone structure against his wife. He was timid, submissive, and didn’t command respect. Maria, a stout, blue eyed woman with skin like leather from years of sun exposure, was shrewd, and harsh in her dealings, and was feared by her subordinates.

Antonio didn’t fear his parents, as they were always generous with him, and hardly exercised any authority over him. In fact, it was Giovanni Jr. who abused his authority over his siblings. Antonio’s resentment towards Giovanni Jr. grew with each command he fired at him. His brother’s job was to find each of his siblings a mate to marry. He had handpicked one for Antonio but he wouldn’t have it. He had met the love of his life, Menna. When this relationship became common knowledge, it was met with disapproval and resistance by both Giovanni Jr., and their parents. His brother would try to manipulate Antonio into believing that he was too good for this woman; that she came from a low-income family, and that he deserved better. It was to no avail, as Antonio had made up his mind that she would be the one he would marry. He knew any attempt at acceptance by his family was futile, so he and Menna decided they would elope to get married.

The planned civil ceremony went off without a hitch and Antonio and Menna boarded a train to Switzerland soon after, to escape his tyrannical brother. It looked promising for him and his young bride as they started their life together, but things quickly changed.

Antonio’s father died a year after the nuptials, and he was forced to take his pregnant wife and move back to his town to assist his brother and mother with the business, until his mother died in the summer of ’86.

It was then, I shut off the recorder. Antonio and I would meet again tomorrow to get the second part of my story. As I got up to leave, Antonio signalled the patron to come over. He crossed the café in small strides and leaned his ear down to Antonio’s face when he reached him. Antonio whispered something to him. They both looked up at me, and he proceeded to smile and say, “you musta stay to eat lunch wit ussa, on me”.

When in Italy…

The night air howled as Jenny huddled with her sister, trying desperately to keep her warm. Sitting on the packed January snow, Lorrie’s legs were draped over Jenny’s like a pretzel.

“My bum is so cold, Jenny”, she said, frozen tears stinging her cheeks.

“I know Pookie, mine too”, Jenny said. She looked towards her brother whose head was cradled in his arms as he rocked back and forth.

“Matt, come closer. We have to keep warm”, she said while pulling him by the arm.

“I hate him! I wish he was dead! I’m going to buy a gun, and kill him!” Matt said sniffling. His lower lip was quivering, and he looked like he was going to cry again.

Jenny pulled his head in closer to her chest and caressed the back of his t-shirt, being careful to keep it tucked into his track pants.

“Shh, Matty, it’ll be over soon,” she said and looked up at the bedroom room window, watching a familiar scene unfold; two silhouettes, one of them timorous, recoiling like a sheep from the attack of a wolf. Jenny gulped, and pulled her brother and sister closer, shielding their eyes from the storm.

“Is mommy coming yet?” Lorrie said quietly. Her teeth were chattering, and her eyes were getting heavy.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing, Nana’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…” Lori sang, trying to keep her voice from cracking as she swallowed the bitter wind. She shifted position, her arms locked on Matty and Lorrie. She wished she had put on a thicker pair of sweat pants, but she was never prepared for this. Each time, Jenny had talked herself into believing that it would be the last. She wasn’t as trusting as Lorrie and Matt, but she hadn’t allowed herself to become dispirited during the last three years. Surely, not every dad was like theirs. Matt and Lorrie couldn’t make sense of it, but she had learned about relationships in health class. Mrs. Pattington was quite informative about the dynamics between males and females. She often wondered if Mrs. Pattington was suspicious of what was going on with her because of all her questions, but though her teacher was smart, she was disconnected with her students. Her best friend, Tasha, had complained twice about the boys in the class to Mrs. Pattington, and both times Mrs. Pattington hadn’t lifted her head from her journal while Tasha was talking to her, mumbled an occasional ‘uh huh’, and shrugged her off with ‘all twelve year old boys like to tease girls. Just walk away.’

The sharp pain Jenny suddenly felt in the arm she had wrapped around Matty made her wince and brought her back to the harsh reality of the storm.

“I’m hungry Jenny. Can we go inside now?” Matty said.

She looked again at the family room window and saw that the silhouettes were no longer there. The sliding door opened slowly, and there her weary mother stood, waving for them to come in.

Matty’s eyes lit up. His mouth curved into a semi-smile as he rose to his feet and ran towards his mother. Lorrie’s eyes were closed, her head still against Jenny’s chest. Jenny gently jerked her little sister’s chin.

“Time to go inside, Lorrie”, she said. Jenny took hold of her, lifted her up to her feet with her, and released her. It was then she noticed how tiny Lorrie still was for a nine year old. An overwhelming feeling of reverence for her sister came over her. Her minuscular body was no match to her kind and loving disposition; a disposition that hadn’t changed, despite the trials she had endured from the age of three.

“Mom,” Jenny cried, and joined Matty and Lorrie who were cradling their mother’s legs, her mother’s arms tightly around them. Jenny wondered if her siblings saw the apparent distress in their mother’s face.

“I’m so sorry, my babies. I am so, so sorry”, she said, her grip steadfast.

Jenny wanted to console her, yet slap her at the same time.. She let go her grip around her mother’s frail torso. She closed the screen door, secured the lock and wrapped Matty and Lorrie together in the blanket her mom had. She felt her mother’s moist tears come down onto her forehead. Her shoulders slumped in defeat while she walked Matty and Lorrie to the sofa and tucked them both under the blanket. She then reached for the matches on the top of the fireplace mantle and lit it. The room was dark, and cold. She watched the flames crackle, all the while seeing her mother’s figure from the corner of her eye. She hadn’t moved. She turned to look at her to find her staring down, frozen in her tracks. She walked towards her slowly to look at her face more closely. She couldn’t see any visible marks, though the fire only emitted a dim light. Jenny’s heart felt like it was being ripped from her chest. The beast could not be tamed, and any attempt made by this meek figure before her was futile. The pain the sheep endured at the evil wolf’s hand was by far worse than the mildly frostbitten toes and fingers they experienced the last few times.

“Mom?” Jenny said. She struggled with the words.

Her mom looked up, but Jenny could only make out the round, large shape of her mother’s eyes.

“When is this going to end?” she said, imploring her mother’s eyes for an answer.

After a few minutes, her mother said “We can’t leave. He will find us and kill us.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the police?” Jenny begged.

“No. Don’t you know who your father is? He runs this city. No one can help us”, she said.

After another half hour of silence, her mother gently nudged Matty, whispering for him that it was time for bed. Her look told Jenny she wanted her to do the same with Lorrie. They walked as quietly as they could up the long set of stairs, and each went into a separate bedroom. When they met outside the bedrooms, Jenny took ahold of her mom in her arms, tightly. She could feel her mom’s breath come faster, and she released Jenny’s grip.

“Good night my sweet child,” her mom said, and turned away.

Jenny’s eyes followed her mom’s shadow until it was around the corner and out of sight; until she could hear her mom’s bedroom door close.

He would be fast asleep now.

Jenny knew it was time.

He used to pierce holes in my heart agonizingly slowly, my chest cavity closing in tightly each time, to hug the deep wound for fear it would unfurl. My hands loyal servants to my psyche, alternating from catching the pool of tears streaming from my face, to embracing my curled up feeble legs sitting against the corner of my bed. Each time was harder than the last, until my heart ripped in half when the collection of holes merged into one.

Until one day I lifted my defeated body carefully from the floor like a puppet master, carefully moving one limb at a time. Then, I took my heart in my hand and stitched it back up, and filled the holes, one by one, until it was back to one piece, each scar a reminder that broken things can be put back together with care and patience. The refurbished me could now love again.

The morning sun shone on my bedroom window, beckoning me to see its splendour. I always leave the blinds slightly open so it could peek through to wake me. I had never owned, nor thought of owning an alarm clock. In fact, I don’t understand people’s connection to them, nor any other technical gadget. I don’t own a television or cell phone either, and, I choose not to have a car. I read paperback books for entertainment, usually under the tree in my backyard. My best friend Suzie says I’m not normal because of how I choose to live, that is unconventionally, and inconveniently. Despite her disapproval, I continue to air-dry my hair, cook my food over a log burning fire, light candles, and ride my bike to work, daily.

I abhor the thought of enclosing myself in an aluminium box mobilized by a substance that only emits toxins into the air. There is nothing I take more delight in than awakening all my senses amongst Nature! The dew-kissed summer grass, the fragrant lilacs, the bright orange fall leaves, the tender brush of snowflakes on my tongue; each season incites its own magnificence to experience.

This particular morning, I lay in bed peeking back at the sun, my head resting in my arms, overcome by a feeling of serenity. It will be a matter of minutes before Suzie’s cheery voice will be on the other end of my phone receiver. Oh, how I’m dreading today. We are going into the city…to shop. I don’t know which I hate more, shopping or the city!

The sound of the phone rings on cue, interrupting my thoughts.

“Howdy, Janice!” Suzie says.

“Hi Suz. Are you leaving your place now?” I ask.

“Um, actually, I’m parked on your driveway. I’m sorry, I tried calling on my way over, but you know how reception is up in these rural areas,” she says.

“Oh Suz, I need a few minutes, please!” I say as I bolt out of bed.

“Take your time Jan. I’m just playing a game on my phone,” she laughs.

Within seven minutes, I’m outside the front door, cringing as I could see that she has left her 1999 Ford Taurus running the entire time she’s been waiting.

I’m greeted by her usual toothy grin as I enter the car. She places her phone down but I can see she hasn’t finished her game.

“Janice! Come over here. Give me a hug!” she says and extends her arms.

“We’re going to have the best day,” Suzie continues, and turns towards the steering wheel still smiling, before putting her car in reverse.

Once we leave my driveway, I open my window to take in the fresh morning air. Within seconds, Suzie and I are exchanging stories since our last encounter two weeks ago. I look out the open window often, afraid I’ll miss the inosculation of the Maple tree on Alderbrook Lane, the corn field in the town of Alton, or even the colorful row of mums along 9th line.

As we eventually approach Main St. in downtown Toronto, I start getting a familiar feeling emanating from my stomach. The heat begins to rise all the way to my face, and I feel light-headed and nauseous.

“Are you alright?” Suzie asks, as she parks and shuts off the ignition of her car.

“Give me a minute.” I say. I lay my head back and close my eyes. I try desperately to change my thoughts. I think of a running stream, the birds chirping alongside the sound of the current, a tree’s branches above just inches from touching it. I walk towards it, my fingertips reaching to feel its coolness. I take a deep breath, hold it and finally exhale loudly. I tuck away this image only to use it several times during that day.

When Suzie pulls away from my driveway three hours later, I dart to the pond in my yard, where my fish swim freely, shaded by my honey locust tree. I throw myself on the grass under it, arms and legs extended to embrace all the warmth of the sun emerging through its branches. I can finally breathe again.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes."

“What happened?”

“Mom!”

“We need to take care of this."

“I’ll be fine.”

“You say that all the time.”

“I do. I'm fine.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Please place me on the bed.”

“Yes, of course."

“Am I heavy, mother?”

“Not any heavier than last week.”

“Open the blinds once you place me down.”

“There are some things that should stay in the dark.”

"Can you buy me a crimson dress like hers, mom?”

“Abby, don’t start that again. You are not her.”

“But I am so much like her mom. Don’t you see?”

“You definitely have her gift."

“Come sit on the bed with me mom. I will tell you a story.”

“I don’t like your stories, Abby."

“Don’t be afraid, mother.”

“Ok. I’m listening.”

“One rainy night in October, a young boy named Spencer ascended the stairs to the bedroom of a young woman who lay awake in her bed.. The leaves had all fallen off the trees, and the sky was black. The wind hissed and shook the naked tree branches wildly. Spencer’s footsteps weren’t silenced by the wind. They were getting closer. The young woman sat up in bed, and fixated her eyes on the door knob as it turned slowly. A large shadow appeared until she could see the figure fully enter the room and close the door quietly behind him. She didn’t move. He approached the foot of her bed, and started undressing”.

“Please stop.”

“I can’t. The story continues.”

“You must stop, Abby. You know what happens when you finish. Please lay down and go to sleep."

“Sleep is for those who don’t dream, or see like I do. Mom, stay with me.”

“I won’t go.”

“I knew that already. You will though, once I’m asleep. Please don’t cry tonight mom.”

“I can’t make you any promises."

“I knew that too. I’ve seen it. Come. Do you like it when I hold you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I know, but you don't like my gift. I won't finish my story, mom.”

Parents

It's a war between love and hate.

She has been conditioned by them.

She hates in herself what she sees in them: her concern with image; her anger at a transgression from the past; her manipulative ways to get attention; her martyrdom; and the least of these, her big italian nose.

She told me she wishes she could change these things.

I tell her a wish can become a goal. A goal can become hard work. Hard work can become results. Results can become change.

Except for the big italian nose. Embrace it.

Oh, how I think, and think, and think

And write...

I have to, or all these thoughts floating around in my head are crashing into one another, like bumper cars at the fair; the ride operator in control of running it safely, while ensuring amusement for the rider.

But, I'm not amused. And there's danger in too much thinking.

So I get off the ride, and I write.

One less car on the track.

One less crash.