Eleanor Ball

Uncle Mario Has Burned the Pastachina

ItalianFest went out of business. Christmas dinner is turkey now. No one’s gone to St. Anthony’s
in years. Maybe that’s why we keep losing our shit. Not even Dad met Grandpa Nick. No more
afghans because Ga’s got glaucoma. If you spilled coffee on yours, you’re fresh out of luck. I’m
told Uncle Mario burned the pastachina at my baptism. We used to have a framed picture of
Nana in our kitchen, but now it’s a photo magnet. Nana/Rachel/an Italian name we’ve forgotten,
suffered the passage from Calabria just to end up on a magnet watching her nephew burn the
pastachina. Sorry, Nana, but I would have liked to watch that and I would like to watch it again. I
don’t believe in ghosts but I would like to meet a few of ours. Tomorrow when I hear Dad
rattling in the kitchen at midnight, I want to come downstairs and find a dead man instead.
Capicola sandwich in one hand, scotch in the other. Mixing up something he is going to burn.