What the Basil Leaf Remembers
A summer’s day in 1957
Our backyard where it grew
The mint, too, which we chewed
The wall supporting the yard and street behind
The garage and the space behind where we climbed
The fence next to Joe’s yard
Nonna picking the basil for cooking
Tomato plants struggling while Joe’s flourished
The swing set until we grew too tall
The peach tree with no fruit
Wasps’ nest on the garage gutters
Half the yard in concrete and the little fence to separate the garden
Whiffleball games in the yard
A scoreboard I made on the garage wall
Brian as catcher with his hat turned backwards
The whole yard in concrete and the chalked batter’s box
Pretending the upstairs porch was the broadcast booth
The upstairs porch with always threatens to fall in dreams
The zinnias Mom planted, leaves grainy to the touch
Nonno listening to the ballgame, transistor to his ear
The picnic table which became a boat a spaceship or anything we wanted.
Emptying the garage with all the stuff to play with
Nonna yelling in Italian to put all the stuff back
The back porch my Uncle Dewey redid in concrete
Nonna’s two back door, one which never locks in dreams
The night-blooming cirrus which came indoors to bloom
The swimming pool too small to swim in
Me on a tricycle in a black-and-white photo
Me 70 years on
remembering.
