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                        Heard three people speaking Italian
                        in the supermarket today
                        a man, his wife chatting
                        with a younger woman
                        in so casual a way.
                        I parked my cart near them
                        pretended to study canned vegetables
                        but I was listening
                        recalling the familiar rhythms of the words
                        watching hand gestures, facial shifts
                        the rise and fall of vowels
                        remembered sounds of something lost.

                        Home is the sound of people speaking
                        Italian rooted in the kitchen and
                        curling, like a vine, up the stairs
                        to my bedroom when I’m falling asleep.
                        Mama, papa, Zia Nina, Zio Peppino,
                        Joe, Elena, Paulo, and Pete
                        drinking coffee, iced-tea, anisette
                        eating Sara Lee pound cake and homemade pizzelles.
                        Cigar smoke and laughter looping toward
                        the kitchen light in gauzy ribbons.
                        Cards shuffled, nuts cracked open.

                        Those laughing grown-up voices
                        that said to me
                        No matter who has died or
                        what has happened or
                        where we are going
                        the family will survive.
                        Marianna, you will do more than survive
                        You will rise above your destiny
                        soar beyond your fortune
                        will grab fate by the hair
                        hold it down, kick it
                        until it agrees to
                        smile on you with blessings.

Mary Ann Vigilante Mannino