“Here”, is Mr Walter’s office. Blank walls, denuded desk, overly tiny chair struggling with Mr Walter’s heft. He is a plump man. As my mother would say later: “he must be eight months pregnant with a stomach like that. The baby would come out smelling of beer.”
Somewhere, I see him playing with his grandchildren, on a playground, or in a room full of toys. One of them is tearing off the head of a Marvel figurine.
This memory had been lost in layers of time. I only recently remembered it. I would have been around 7 – 8 years old. We had driven to a house somewhere in the country. It was day. Probably late summer. The sky was intensely blue, and the light was bright and squint-inducing. “Okay, Joe and […]
My father, like my mother, died in 2016. My father died nine months after my mother passed. Having already spoken to my mother, I thought it would also be valuable to speak with Pietro.
My mother, Teresa, died in 2016 and I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since. Except for this rare discussion.
Do children ever really know what their parents are like? Do they ever realise their parents have a life that’s broader and more expansive than just parenting? Do they ever realise they have an inner life, a social life, and most likely, a parenting persona as well? One that’s nuanced. That has different shades to […]
Ameriga was any place that, at the time, was richer than Sicily. In the late 1950s, that would be quite a long list. So Australia was Ameriga. A land where gold flowed in the streets, and all that was required was to stoop down and pick it up.
I can’t imagine the conversation between my grandmother and one of her daughters-in-law. The subject is my mother, Teresa.
The locker room, obviously designed for a Western palate, was shocked by the introduction of an avalanche of Southern Mediterranean pre-packaged food from home.
There can more to a comfortable sofa than just sitting on it.
citizenjoe 