BABY

i love being called by nicknames;
that’s how my Daddy treated me.
he also taught me the moon and the stars,
each night, upon his knee.

 

amazing the constellations still visible,
through the smokey aura of where we were;
all his knowledge of mythology,
and i hung on his every word.
 

we lived in the Inner City,
with noise, and traffic, and cars.
neon Beauty Shop, Whitey’s Cafe,
and Eddie Rickenbacker’s Mother’s yard.

she called me “That Pretty Little Knies Girl,”
with all that curly hair.
but i only knew this, later, through Mama;
she was too old for me to go there.

she lived right across the street from me,
though Eddie was older, and long since gone.
his Mom, and other widows, so curious,
they were my pals; my Other Moms.

old Mrs. Burrington was two doors down,
and she had a candlestick phone.
you see, i was the only child allowed in there;
otherwise, my brother Timmy would never have known.

she called me “The Little Old Lady,”
because Saturday afternoon was Tea.
i was awed by her laces and roses,
and i always felt her fondness for me.

she had an Arbor of  Concord Grapes,
the kind that are slippery inside,
all tart skin, but with that treasure within,
so, i took my dolls there, and i would hide.

sometimes she’d look out the window,
from a small, upstairs Attic room.
i never got to go up there,
but she was just there; i knew.

i got my first kiss in that Arbor;
i was so in love with young Zeke,
and en route to a neighboring Party,
he wanted to have a peek.

Zeke knew that i knew, so he whispered,
what it is like in there?
i told him it was cool and shady,
with a feeling of being Nowhere.

so i took him inside to show him,
shh! .. hunger was like awe, from inside.
he simply slipped his hand into my hand,
kissed me, and raised his eyes to the sky.

Sweet Mrs. Burrington, a love of my life,
formation, guidance, muse.
i think i still decorate the way she did,
so many lovelies about to use.

she left a ring to my Mother for me.
a perfect oval, Golden Topaz, gleaming.
Mama gave it to me just before i turned 12,
as a keepsake, because we were leaving.

she knew it would be hard on me,
to leave that big old home.
so she slipped that ring on my finger,
and told me i’d never be alone.

old Mrs. Wilson was another one;
she lived behind us, and was always on guard,
with a flower garden, and a vicious hose,
and she kept all the balls that flew into her yard.

she called me “Little Miss Nosy,”
for I would walk right up to her door,
and ring the bell that chimed inside,
and wait patiently on the porch.

and once in a while, she would let me in,
such a curious little child.
never playing much with the other girls,
it was by the old ladies that i was beguiled.

her home’s rooms were like a tramway,
little corridors between newspaper stacks.
but i looked beyond them, to her trappings,
and thought better of asking about that.

 

another one was poor old Mrs. Lamb,
the crazy lady, the neighborhood freak.
no, i never went there, and got no nickname,
in fact, on approach, i would cross the street.

she was oooold, but that’s how it was,
people stayed at home.
i only knew the smell of cats,
and that she was alone.

her house was painted grey, indelible,
reaching out like that in a color landscape,
the Witch, and other cruel childrens’ words,
were said until they took her away.

we all gathered in awe, in hush, a huddle;
together, in disbelief.
to see the frail person on the gurney,
and to see the strength that she released.

we none, ever, spoke of her again.
our heads were that bowed in shame.
it was just unspeakable to utter it,
so like a haint, she just went away.

at the corner of Lockbourne was a Welder,
and the fascination was long and intense.
my brother and i would stare through the blue glass,
to see the sparks that he made at his bench.

he called us “Bogen & Bogen,”
a popular jingle for a business in town,
because we were always inseparable,
he was my chum, my brother, my pal.

sometimes Mom would call me “Miss Lippy,”
“that is ENOUGH, now; you must be a lady.”
guess i had an opinion, even as a girl,
but then Daddy would come in and call me Baby.

the eldest called me Sis or ‘Lil Sister,
the next one, Madame Fogerty,
with Daddy it was cookie and sweetie,
and with Mom, Miss Maggie McGee.

Alan called me “P.K.,”
a name that sticks to this day.
Scotty called me “Birdie,”
And “Bean” was what Lloydy would say.

i guess i got used to being coddled.
cuddled, loved, and cherished.
i suppose because of the drowning at 5,
and coming out, seeing all that caring.

because it was instilled in me,
and such fondness comes from these names,
i carry that on, just like Daddy did,
by treating my friends the same.

i call them all by endearments, too,
like: hi, pal, my chum, or hey mate.
but i’ve been called boss, and i’ve been called bitch
when others haven’t gotten their way.

but the one i love most is still “Baby.”
just like in my family, a part of my name,
the youngest, and the only survivor,
so Baby i will remain.

i think of them all by my heartstrings,
i miss them, every day.
so i keep their pictures near me,
a veritable wall is on display.

for i need my anchor, my family,
even though now they’ve all since gone on.
but they live on in me, still breathing,
and they are the reason that i belong.

and although i am alone now,
my heart fills on Christmas day,
and i stay in touch with the family i still have,
my own daughter, neices and nephews remain.

and the sun comes in again and again,
and it shines on these pictures i keep,
and they help me daily, just seeing them,
knowing the girl i really am, beneath. 

 

~

 

Christmas Day,
12/25/11

 

 

1948

This Is Where I Came In

I feel so welcome here.

Thank you, Family.

Thank you, Universe.