The Things We Don't Leave Behind

I remember the kitchen cupboard in my grandparents house. The cupboard had always been there, but I remember that, when I was very young, I was never allowed to open it no matter how much the fancy plates, salt and pepper shakers, various vases, and bottles enticed me. I wanted to be Indiana Jones and they were lost treasures.

I remember how my grandmother would yell (just enough) to get me away from that cupboard when I reached for the cabinets doors in an attempt to put Juicy Juice in one of the Indiana harvest carnival glass cups because I was convinced that one drink of sugar water from one of those cups would give me super powers. They would make me invincible, or grant me the ability to fly. But, alas, those childhood dreams would be forever rejected, and forced back into the ooze of nostalgia when the harsh words came running forth from the mouth of one Pennsylvania Dutch woman.

My grandparents are moving. They are downsizing because time and taxes have caught up with them. Now, I own the those very same cups, as well as the pitcher that goes with them, and other things that deserve to stay in the family for another generation. What happened yesterday is what I like to call the lifespan of a memory. It had a just close. Something bittersweet that you can appreciate. I will carry these simple things with me for as long as fate sees fit. All the while knowing that they could break in an instant. I will keep in mind that they are just things, but the beauty of the memory will resonate within me, and now you, for the rest of our lives. One small boy's dream for superpowers. One grown man's appreciation for his grandmother's prized possessions.

It's often funny, the things we remember. Now, pass the Juicy Juice.

Okay, I gave you some of my own nostalgia. Now, let me share with you a poem about one of my father's worst memories. And, once again, a bit of appreciation.
__________________________________

The Italian

You strapped the Italian

to the back

of your Yamaha

motorcycle

and made your way to work.

I can feel your stomach hurting.

your curly,

Puerto Rican locks

tucked into your helmet

like steel wool

against foam

and hard plastic.

You had hunger pains.

Not from missing breakfast.

But from missing breakfast

for the second day in a row.

The motor roared.

Your stomach growled.

As you drove to one

Of the three jobs

You had back then.

It was because you had a newborn

who was lactose intolerant.

And the formula was unreasonably expensive

For 1987.

You checked the Italian

At the 8^th street light.

You check the Italian

On Lehman street.

You got comfortable.

And you kept moving through downtown Lebanon,

back when the city was still hopeful.

I can see you

Parking.

Turning the bike off.

Dismounting.

And the look of shock in your face

when you realize that the Italian

was gone.

Your last five dollars

bought the foot-long sub,

a Coke,

and a bag of chips,

which you would never know the taste of.

It would be a victory

that you would never experience.

It would be a lunch hour

spent staring at the clock,

and thinking about your son

who never stopped crying

because he could never drink

from his own mother.

I’m sorry.

For everything,
and for nothing.

Yesterday,

I won $50

On a scratch-off ticket

And I thought of you

At 18.

I wished I had a time machine.

I would have bought us both one,

I would have broke my vegetarianism.

I would have sat in the lunchroom.

Two blue chairs.

One gray table.

I would have eaten with you

in beautiful silence.

I promise that I have never taken a meal

for granted.

I eat every bite.

I have no son.

But I am one.

And

I have you

to thank

for

nourishment. 

_____________________________________

Pay it forward. Give back. Keep your head up. Boogey down.

~Torres