Nonno by Nicole Barth [7/15/10]

How do you expect the unexpected?
You and I both know the final page was coming.
The grandfather clock,
that timeless man in the corner,
has chimed for the last time.


But don't you cry for him,
his pale blue eyes had seen the skies
and known the love of famiglia,
he'd fought for years
and never let his one lung get the best of him.


She still remembers sitting at the dining room table
on the patio outside,
the perfectly groomed grass
caressing the tiles around them,
on a late Friday night in summer,


filled to the brim with Carla's lasagna
and endless melon with prosciutto,


mesmerized by his discussions on business
and the proper way to live.


Zoom the camera in,
and you'll see
—in the corner—

that girl in the obsidian dress,
the river of mascara
following the cracks in her skin
as her mouth sews itself shut
by using the thread of grief.


Funny how women
have taken the little black dress
from place to place...


The timeless piece of clothing, they say
—like the grandfather clock—
but that girl's dress has yet to live.


It's seen the flickering candles and the
sugary frosting of sweet sixteen cakes,
but it's never tasted the salty tears of a funeral.
A dress has never been worn until it's seen it all.


Biting her chapped lip
to keep the remorse from
gushing from her onto the wooden
church's pews,
her drowning eyes search for a distraction,
a momentary pause
from the distilled silence.


It doesn't matter that her her shins are aching
because of her heels
which force her to survey
the morose catastrophe
from a greater distance,

as she dries her eyes with her fists,
further smudging the ink
that has clearly written her emotions on her face.


She will not
—she cannot—
bring herself to run her fingers
along the varnish of his maple box...


for that is what she tells herself.
Merely a box,
merely a resting place for something that is no longer there.
Someone? That is no longer there....


But it's not just a box, to her.
And it's not just someone.


A shaky breath,
a chorus of sniffles.
she feels the air catch and rattle in her chest
as she sighs,
trying to alleviate the sinking
feeling that courses through her,
bringing her in an out of focus.


The whispered,
“Era un uomo incredibile,”
back to the feeling of nausea
that threatens to bubble over
within her.


She's shaking like a leaf
as the room moves in sluggish circles around her,
she can hardly breathe,
as she silently screams,


her eyes clawing for a distraction
as they skitter from the overly colorful,
fuchsia, burgundy and scarlet,
overly cheery bouquets
in the porcelain vases


by its..
no...
his
coffin


back down to her own
exposed
toes.


The flowers on her summertime heels
make her want to vomit.


They told her heels would
be the proper attire for such a serious occasion as this.


But tell me... how are
flowered peep-toes appropriate for an occasion like this?


And tell me....
How do you expect the unexpected?