I’m told I was too young to remember
And the memory replays in may mind like a scene from a movie—
A large wooden staircase leads up to the tiny apartment.
From the darkness, sunlight breaks through and onto
The dusty film that softens the window.
The sweet smell of paint penetrates the air;
Someone is painting the back porch,
Splattered clothes and a stark white painter’s cap in the corner.
A harsh image, light off the ’69 Mustang bumper,
Disrupts the softness.
“Don’t cry kukla,” Mama says, as she carries the suitcases
And Baba the boxes, up and down the stairs.
The stairs, up and down, again and again, then gone.
Then gone, the memory,
“Kukla mou,” she says over
And over, “Kukla mou.”
And the memory replays in may mind like a scene from a movie—
A large wooden staircase leads up to the tiny apartment.
From the darkness, sunlight breaks through and onto
The dusty film that softens the window.
The sweet smell of paint penetrates the air;
Someone is painting the back porch,
Splattered clothes and a stark white painter’s cap in the corner.
A harsh image, light off the ’69 Mustang bumper,
Disrupts the softness.
“Don’t cry kukla,” Mama says, as she carries the suitcases
And Baba the boxes, up and down the stairs.
The stairs, up and down, again and again, then gone.
Then gone, the memory,
“Kukla mou,” she says over
And over, “Kukla mou.”
Tammy DiStefano