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Tanna

John L. Stanizzi

She lived alone in a little green house,
that deep dark green that was almost black,
and always sad.

The walls of her house
were papered with smoke,
and the smell of brandy
pervaded the heavy alcoholic drapes
covered with lurid green
brandywine blooms
apt to take fire.

She had a chihahaua
shaped like a bowling ball
with pencils for legs.
It’s eyes ran.
It snorted.
It coughed when someone knocked on the door.

She had three sons,
all gone.

Danny, the college boy,
anxious and so thin
he rattled when he walked.
The Institute would let him
come home at Christmas
as long as he didn’t touch the cutlery.

Eddie, the Good Humor man,
hair like Elvis
and teeth the color of mustard.
It was exciting when Eddie came to our street,
Turkey in the Straw
on a hot summer afternoon.
He’d give me free ice cream
and slyly showed me his gun.

Petey, the pro fighter,
the bantom weight,
the kid who could knock you out
with body shots,
the kid whose face was poisoned
by the rosen on the gloves,
Petey, whose face fell apart,
melted, ached, warped, morphed
wept with open sores
that looked like bleeding maps...
The rosen did that,
dissolved his face,
forced his retirement.
Petey never left the house,
not for the rest of his life.

After Uncle Tommy died
Tanna lived alone,
drank brandy and smoked Chesterfields.
Once in a while she’d find someone
to pick her up
and take her dancing.

She was 96.

At Christopher’s wedding,
held at Lou’s Pizza,
which later become
The Route 5 All Faith Memorial Chapel,
she saw me standing out front
smoking a stog.
She strutted up to me,
all five feet of her,
like an arrogant chicken
full of confidence,
pocketbook locked at her elbow,
unfiltered Chesterfield between
her pointer and middle finger,
the back of her hand facing me,
the hinge of her wrist
flashing her unlit cig.

Hey you got a light, she rasped
with her I’ve been smoking for 75 years voice.

Yeah, Aunt Tanna, I got a light,
I said, illuminating her hoary painted face in the matchlight.

Thanks, she croaked. What’cha doin’ later?

I said, It’s me. Johnnie. Your nephew.

Yeah. That’s nice, she grated.
What’cha doin later?

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