Last night I wandered into the basement of my mind and found it full of long forgotten furnishings from the past. Couches, love seats, arm chairs and ottomans. An old wooden magazine rack, a pair of cut glass lamps, a black and white TV and through the door on the far side, a dining room and kitchen filled with late 60’s appliances and decor.
There on the counter was an abandoned glass of scotch, the single cube of ice barely a sliver. Beside it lying lazily on its rest was an old pipe, smoke drawing its wispy way up towards a slowly illuminating chandelier. I place my hands on the back of a chair and find a snow dampened coat hanging there. The table, with seating for twenty, is scattered with the remains of a feast, the barely visible table cloth adorned with holly berries and wreaths dutifully noting the occasion.
As my eyes make their way around the table I become vaguely aware of a growing din building just beyond perception. The empty chairs begin to stir with something not quite motion, more refractions of light perhaps. The backs of the chairs become opaque with the shapes as the guests materialize. As I turn my head towards the head of the table I see my Father and Grandfather come into soft focus, their celebratory expressions, momentarily frozen in time, become animated again.
The din of the celebration no longer confined to the realm of possibility roars outward and seems to void the air from the room with a sudden and urgent frenzy. The table comes alive and I am now seated to the right of my father, my Grandfather across from me where his daughter would normally sit. Around the table are faces and voices that are unknown but familiar. The conversations merely nonsensical mash-ups of sound bites but just beneath it I can make out the chorus of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” playing softly.
To my left my Father takes my hand, the leathery veneer of his calloused hand warms me instantly. I turn in time to see him flash that legendary mile-wide smile then catch the stoic gaze of my Grandfather who gives me a knowing nod. I take the hand of the guest to my right and closing my eyes reverently, begin to say grace. When I open my eyes again I’m seated at the head of the table with my wife, children, sisters and Mother seated before me. They look expectantly, their silence begging one final word.
I muster my best Vito smile and say “Amen”.
Mannino Acid 