How Many Thursdays In November?

How Many Thursdays In November?

Fall of the year - when trees empty
branches of leaves, doomed by winter,
bare – shivering in their way by ice -
snow – coating their limbs, and ours.

November, a season to give thanks
but who remembered to wear an apron
over a new shirt, while basting a
Turkey? Who splattered hot grease?
Covering Grandmother’s old table
cloth?

Sure, who wants Fall to arrive, when
you live in a place where snow falls
by the foot - where hands freeze and
pants are soaked, walking to school?

Sure, we all gather during the fall of
the year – we give thanks.
So, I do like all the rest of you with
your heads bowed, wondering to
yourself, what thanks? What is right?

The war is still on? I am feeling sad
about those who left us – about those
who are sick, hungry, even the man
who strolls the street – near Father’s
office. I thought about him – will he
eat enough in winter – and stay warm,
not to shiver like the limbs or a tree,
and me?

More people are not working – more
people can’t gather like this, and pray
about how grateful they are for this day…
this day in November.

A month of tragedy – Kennedy – like
it happened yesterday, it was all a fake –
all of it. He was a patsy, I know it. But
my parents tell me to hush. . .

I counted the notes on my journal,
where all the deaths of family members
happened in November. Grandfather –
it was a cold November day, I heard.

So here we are in the month to give
thanks.
Yes, I thank someone – anyone – for
all the gifts I get – next month. I laugh
but shouldn’t.
Yes, I do have grandparents, living.
Yes, I worry about my own family,

I wonder, do they worry about me?
I remember when I never reached the
table, Mother placed phone books on
a dining room chair.

We barely fit into the room – but
no one cared. They believed it was
a miracle we were all together, sitting
praying, peeking from closed eyes.

This year I get to tell the stories of
Indians, and Pilgrims – how they
became friends. I wonder why
Indians gave all their land away?
Who really wanted fur?

Grandmother is like Mother -
worried friends and relatives never
have enough to eat.
Wanting lots of leftovers –
and hearing the same old thing
about too much butter in her
mashed potatoes.

So it’s November, and we have been
lucky without snow. Today the men
our outside raking leaves, blowing them
onto other peoples property…

So it’s November, and my little
sister will be bringing home pictures
of Indians and Pilgrims, she will cut
paper like a Pilgrims Hat, she will make
head bands, and make me try them on.

But this war lingers so, and men –
shipped home inside coffins – but
buried in medals, with honor guards.
Where were those guards when they
were stranded in a desert?

You see we never change.
Never change - like Grandmother
inspecting a turkey for a feather
before a day of thanks –
everyone nervous when people
arrive late.

What makes me laugh? The year
my Father told me Grandmother was
having some spiked eggnog and she
was playing the piano…
He told me, “No one smelled the
turkey,” at least he didn’t when he
arrived; he was dating Mom then. . .

Grandmother, she never turned the
oven on.
She will never live it down -
We hear the story in November,
when we gather around her big
table.

So this year - I asked during a prayer
of thanks – how many men and women
are not here – at home?
How many men and women are scattered
on sand while trying to save their life?

How long must we say thanks for things -
things that are not right?

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

CHILDREN NEVER CHOOSE

I did not choose to be alone on a play ground
to push my favorite shoes in dirt to swirl
the merry go ground - at a slow pace. . .
Toss sand on a slide, hoping not to stick
to metal - wearing dresses - then.

I did not embrace the thought of walking
alone - down Avenue A passing the pharmacy
where my mother received her little round
pills - down Avenue A where my leg's carried
me over red ants hiding between cement.

I ran, ignored the neighbors who waved.
Told to rush - to run - not walk - to pick
up pills before mother died - she told me
so. . .

I did not choose to crawl up our staircase
to my grandmother's house, stopping midway -
to sit alone on the landing. . .
hearing mother's Irish temper explode, but,
she is Irish, I was told. . . and in a minute
- it was over, and she smiled.

I knew Grandmother stood tall at the top -
her apron stocked with chew gum - never gum.
Her hands in the pockets of her apron. . .
A finger to her lips - my little legs
crept up the stairs - she whispered, "New
cookies from Woolworths" -

A Sicilian, upstairs talked different from
mother downstairs, but I cherished both. . .
I did not vanish when I had to ride a
borrowed bike - or smile when a cousin
near the border of Vermont - gave me another. . .
I loved country rides on back roads.

I did not choose to flip flop in white
panties in a bright yellow pool while
Grandmother watched from her window
on the second floor - guarding her white
sheets - hung perfectly straight on a clothes
line draped from a garbage shed to our back
porch. . .

I played near her pear tree, her grape
vines, tomato plants, and beans. . .
close to a shed where dolls slept.
A shed furthest from our cellar door
where I split my toe - on a nail, on a
door where grey paint peeled near rusted
handles - opened to a place where the
boggy man lived.

I did not enjoy watching mother press
pretty dresses for me to wear - watch her
knit, sew, and leave everyday for work -
help pay bills - I created at birth. . .

I did not know my parents could not hold
me - three months - stared through glass
to see their child hooked to lines attached
at her forehead. . .
I did not single out my parent's but I felt
lucky I survived to be their chorus. . .

I did not hand pick my socks, shoes, or
choose the style of my - hair - mother cut
ringlets - stored them inside a red
and white striped box, clips of white
still attached - closed with white ribbon.
Curls chopped off because at five - a school
nurse warned every mothers in our neighborhood
about bugs - about bugs - bugs jumping from
one head to another.

But - I may have selected to stay alone while
playing at the playground. But, I don't
remember why?

Nancy Duci Denofio
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