My First Adult Furniture
a Tibetan hand-painted end table,
a bright face framed in gold
with a permanent smile in the shape
of a shiny brass handle.
We sit on synthetic carpet
surrounded by hissing pipes,
a sunken mattress, empty
deli salad bowls with remnants
of encrusted Honey Mustard dressing.
You, a blooming lily alongside a ditch.
I was like a child then
given permission to walk alone
to the bodega for the first time.
You now wait for me in our foyer
carry the artifacts of my new life:
coffee-stained recital programs,
school photos of children learning to smile,
tissues transformed into a rose —
a note to mommy.
I deliver these to you
the way a dying spouse
hands his wife his ring,
her clenched hand
opens like a hibiscus
and then closes.
One day, we’ll revisit this.
You’ll hand me a photo of my son
wearing those green paisley rain boots he loved.
Why didn’t I hold on to those boots?
I’ll wonder and look at you,
faded, chipped, with no more
to give.
Driving From My Childhood Home
the familiar warmth of streetlights
set between the London Planetrees and White Oaks
guide our way to Main Street.
A man appears in the middle of the street
waving his arms like he was jumping jacks
but with stationary legs.
My husband slows and stops
before I can warn him – keep going.
These days, you never know:
“Good Samaritan dies . . .”
A thin man rapidly approaches.
I recognize his long side curls, untrimmed beard,
heavy-brimmed hat and long black coat.
He’s as familiar as the neighborhood’s Bur Oaks .
I roll down the window,
his voice louder than the radio --
a Passover seder
people gathered
lights turned off
my children
playing (or was that praying)
family waiting,
please
Where are children? I look beyond into the glow of orange lights.
I follow his swift steps
pass the multifamily, semi-attached brick houses,
up a long dark staircase towards murmurs
and aromas of garlic and browned brisket.
I follow a woman’s shadow to a wall,
flip the weightless switch as if to cue the audience.
Sounds simmer down.
Smiles follow me into
the hollowness of the night
in the direction of laughing children.
Anna Papadopoulos has been a cashier, columnist, wedding photographer, candle maker, marketing professor and corporate executive. She adores New York City’s gritty beaches and littered streets and even though she knows the odds of winning the lotto are impossible, she believes that it will happen. She and her husband share their home in Staten Island, NY with their twin sons, daughter, a poodle, a Siberian cat and her mother’s neglected Lenox collection.
a Tibetan hand-painted end table,
a bright face framed in gold
with a permanent smile in the shape
of a shiny brass handle.
We sit on synthetic carpet
surrounded by hissing pipes,
a sunken mattress, empty
deli salad bowls with remnants
of encrusted Honey Mustard dressing.
You, a blooming lily alongside a ditch.
I was like a child then
given permission to walk alone
to the bodega for the first time.
You now wait for me in our foyer
carry the artifacts of my new life:
coffee-stained recital programs,
school photos of children learning to smile,
tissues transformed into a rose —
a note to mommy.
I deliver these to you
the way a dying spouse
hands his wife his ring,
her clenched hand
opens like a hibiscus
and then closes.
One day, we’ll revisit this.
You’ll hand me a photo of my son
wearing those green paisley rain boots he loved.
Why didn’t I hold on to those boots?
I’ll wonder and look at you,
faded, chipped, with no more
to give.
Driving From My Childhood Home
the familiar warmth of streetlights
set between the London Planetrees and White Oaks
guide our way to Main Street.
A man appears in the middle of the street
waving his arms like he was jumping jacks
but with stationary legs.
My husband slows and stops
before I can warn him – keep going.
These days, you never know:
“Good Samaritan dies . . .”
A thin man rapidly approaches.
I recognize his long side curls, untrimmed beard,
heavy-brimmed hat and long black coat.
He’s as familiar as the neighborhood’s Bur Oaks .
I roll down the window,
his voice louder than the radio --
a Passover seder
people gathered
lights turned off
my children
playing (or was that praying)
family waiting,
please
Where are children? I look beyond into the glow of orange lights.
I follow his swift steps
pass the multifamily, semi-attached brick houses,
up a long dark staircase towards murmurs
and aromas of garlic and browned brisket.
I follow a woman’s shadow to a wall,
flip the weightless switch as if to cue the audience.
Sounds simmer down.
Smiles follow me into
the hollowness of the night
in the direction of laughing children.
Anna Papadopoulos has been a cashier, columnist, wedding photographer, candle maker, marketing professor and corporate executive. She adores New York City’s gritty beaches and littered streets and even though she knows the odds of winning the lotto are impossible, she believes that it will happen. She and her husband share their home in Staten Island, NY with their twin sons, daughter, a poodle, a Siberian cat and her mother’s neglected Lenox collection.
