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Every year
that long
weekend just before Summer
burned off in
the back seat,
hot-chafing-crowded, waiting for
Mother to gather those weeds-
*spharangia*-as if
Bird's Eye and
refrigeration never happened,
so tasty, washed & boiled &
soaked in olive oil...
Burnt, incensed offering at an
unmarked grave in
Somersworth, NH, hissing w/ inactivity-
-Never served in the military (no flag)
-Never needed to be bailed out (no teen years)
-Never hit by a pitch (sick, poor)
-Never known in the Patrida ('Amerikanaki')
-Never got a headstone (family moved on...)
The first nice weekend of the
year (i
whined) spent chasing down almost family &
Daddy's vestigial Memory.
'We shared a bed. That morning he was cold. Yaya said, 'Get up! Go! '''
His heart was too big for life support.
NBA playoffs &
RedSox &
April love songs on
the radio; black flies & sweat all over; and Theo Christo,
cold
alone
six feet
under
nothing
Remembered, if only today.
*For my uncle and namesake, Christo George Mendros [1923-1931]*
Cretan Maineiac
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Cece Lamberts (8/12/2007 5:52:00 PM)
What a sad and beautiful picture you're painting here, Christo. Not sure how much your non-Greek readers at PH understand of your references to 'patrida' or 'yaya' or 'sparangia' soaked in olive oil...Poor theo Christo, dying at such a young age, away from patrida. Hopefully, the kid was raised being loved and felt like he belonged somewhere...And thankfully he's still remembered by your mom, at some Psychosavvato, I assume. Aiwnia i mnimi tou...Thanks for this poem. Touched a sore spot for me.
CeCe |
Ron Dragano (7/11/2007 7:48:00 PM)
Chris - I'm a horrible critic- don't like much, understand even less but I certainly like some of the things you got going on in here like your list of nevers and the honesty of the voice that would rather be in the cool shade, how the closest you can get to it all is bitter and morose and that's the real of it. (Or so I read it, but what do I know?) |
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