STEP ON A CRACK

STEP ON A CRACK


All mothers in our neighborhood smoke
cigarettes and wear red Indian kerchiefs on
their forehead to keep sweat from falling
onto their faces - mothers all wear tube
tops - stuff toilet paper inside to make them
look big - send their children to the grocery
store, the drugstore where Mr. Ferro gives tiny
brown bags filled with little bottles of pills.

Mother looks worried when she runs out
of her little orange pills. She would say,
“run, I need my pills, it’s the only thing
that keeps me alive.”

So I grab two one dollar bills she has in her
hand- dash down Avenue A -without thinking
about the cracks or breaking mother’s back –
now I run as I clench my fist so hard my nails
dig into my palm - all I had to do was drop
two dollars.

On those days when I ran for mother, my mind
wasn’t on cracks in cement – but mother dead
at home, laying on our kitchen floor because
I was too slow.

Up the steps I climbed reaching the door to the
pharmacy – I see Mr. Ferro – he smiles - takes
two dollars and hands me this little brown bag
folded perfectly at the top, with two staples.
My steps are quick as I leave the drugstore.
Running down four cement steps, across Mason
Street to on Avenue A. I run - all the way home
expecting to see mother flat across our kitchen
floor – dead.

She isn’t. She is staring out the window
looking out toward Seneca Street - we live
on a corner. Perhaps mother was nervous back
then, and had to work so hard – we counted
pennies from our window ledge for a loaf of
American Bread – pennies, and if we were lucky
a dime or nickel was mixed into the clutter of
change. We took walks together too – mother
kept saying, “step on a crack break your mother’s
back.” I never stopped staring at the blocks of
cement with the name “Visco and Sons” printed
on each slab of stone.

Mother also sent me across the street to Central
Market, for a can of spam, oh, how could she
eat spam? or a can of white tuna fish she told me
it had to be “Tuna of the Sea.” Mother handed me
money then stared once more from our kitchen
window toward Central Market, kitty corner
from the house – directly across from the alley
way.

Walked across a parking lot, scuffing cinders
with shoes – counting change clenched in my
hand – wondering if she gave me too much? She
always gave the correct amount, knowing I
would take an extra ten cents from the window
ledge for the morning – to shove into my pocket
to bring to another store – sold penny candy
at noon time, when fifth and sixth graders walked
across Van Vranken Avenue to buy Malted Milk
Balls twenty for ten cents. Before crossing a busy
road, a lady in a man’s cop clothing, white gloves,
told us when to cross. That’s why mother didn’t care
if I went to the penny store with ten pennies to get
twenty Malted Milk Balls.

Finally I reach the house, climb the stairs with
a larger brown paper bag, holding the railing, daddy
told me when I left the house - no one worried about
people stealing children, but mother did – she watched
from her kitchen window – puffing on her cigarette –
until I opened the side door.

Central Market, a bigger grocery store – giant compared
to Charlie’s three doors down Avenue A – where slabs
of cement lifted up higher in spots, and lower in others.
I had to worry about mother’s back crossing Charlie’s
cement blocks.

Nancy Duci Denofio
All Rights Reserved
1-11-11