Non-Linear

A Poem

I toured the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center

in Albuquerque New Mexico,

when I visited on vacation;

and on the mural walk, I learned

outdoor murals have to be repainted—

or they become weathered, chipped, and eventually fade away;

makes sense—

like so many other things that require care and maintenance.

And my heart broke to imagine

the time-lapsed degradation

and potential destruction

of such beautiful paintings

(but that was far from what hurt the most).

And I thought

“thank god”

for those

who climbed up on ladders

to preserve the precious art.

♢

Reflection:

I think I was repainted too late.

Parts of me, which used to be

vibrant hues

oranges and blues,

defined, and unmistakable.

Blurred, lost, forgotten… reimagined

into a “best guess”—

lacquered over.

And even I didn’t notice.

But when

my daughter asks me for a salty snack,

I no longer think to make garlic bread.

I run out of parsley, and red pepper flakes;

because the Italians who adopted my mom

are all dead,

distant, or estranged;

and so I guess

in their absence, I must have changed.

I lost all the greasy little recipes,

written on notepads

the nurses in the family

got for free

from pharmaceutical reps—

stuffed into a box somewhere

with a pasta machine.

And it wouldn’t matter if I had them anyway,

I can’t eat gluten anymore.

Other Italians can’t relate,

and all I have to relate to them

are the meatballs I learned to make

when I was five.

And the memories

of a full dining room table

every Sunday.

It was enough, for a while,

until I came to understand it never was.

And the culture I lost was never mine to lose…

and it wasn’t even the culture I lost,

but the people I knew;

who now only existed in

tomato-sauce-

scented nostalgia.

But when my second nature

began to require more thought,

I grieved for the child who assumed

that that world would be all she knew

forever.

I once told someone at the bar I was “raised Italian”

And they said “well were you raised Italian, or are you Italian?”

they laughed,

but I didn’t know the answer.

I only knew all my aunts… and my grandma.

I only know the distance between me

and Albuquerque

isn’t only measured in miles, but in time.

And if it’s no more than just a past life,

it’s still a life, and life deserves to be honored.

In this life, if I’m lucky,

I still have two thirds;

plenty to look forward to—

plenty of time

to gather whatever paint I choose,

and paint over myself.

Paintings are unique—

by the end of my life when I leave,

I might not match anyone else…

but for now, I match my brothers.

And we compliment our mother.

Together we live.

Together we grieve.

Sunset in Albuquerque, NM.

This poem was heavily inspired by my visit to the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center in Albuquerque New Mexico in 2024. They do some very important work there. If you’d like to read more about them and leave them a donation, here’s the link!

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Thank you for reading 🖤

- Em

You can purchase a copy of my poetry & art collection, Harmless Frogs & Poison Darts, here:

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