57 Virginia Lane

Sunday middle of morning is the happiest time there is in existence.
Some manner of onion and green peppers smelling up
the stairs all the way to my room.
In the house I always dream within;
without chance there is every tidal wave of catastrophe,
soaring tsunamis on the same front hill which was miles deep
when I lived there.
Not like the return visit at the age of 21;
it had been manicured to fit a red sports car in the driveway.
Not the wild hill wherein my brother and cousin would build
superior icy upward slopes
the sort that today’s child would be greatly warned against doing.
The same hill in my dreams
the waves seemed about 100 feet high,
but I was riding them,
sinking with them,
breathing in all the water I could
to make me strong-
I did not drown, I just continued on the ride.
The power of the pull dragged me down,
and I screamed with delight
like my childhood home was tossing me into the sky,
my own private roller coaster of ocean,
not as when I was once scared
when my father would toss me into the same air and
back into the pool.
Took me years to figure out I just had to let go,
and scream that delighted scream.
On the Sunday afternoons, in fall
sun shining, cool breeze
and the greatest sounds of drying leaves-
called me back home to the dining room,
where we had our European midday meal.
Meats, and wine and endless chatter.
We all spoke over each other but no one ever really cared.
We fought all the time, but there were no American
silences, no time outs, no repressed meanings.
I only know how to say and be what I am,
what I feel,
what is, as far as I am living it.
No ulterior motives at home,
left me green to the ways of the world’s energetic vampires.
The ones who suckled life energy from a room.
This was news to me.
Then, years later, I realize
they do not have this actual and mythical castle made of
scabs, and Sunday dinners, and fall sunshine.
No verbal prizefights, tears shed, laughter
uncontrollable, stories which were always on repeat
but never old, or worn.
To those who could never dream in drowning and coming alive
again on the front hill,
or the back woods wherein I got lost and liked it.
I am sorry to them that never had the protection of Sunday,
and a midday meal.

~ M. Lucia