- A Bronx New Year’s Eve
1:10 p.m.—Under portraits of a velvet Jesus there is my grandfather’s favorite chair which no one dares sit in. The kids are afraid that if they sit their fingers too would turn black and the love of sleeping will catch them. Sleeping a dreamless sleep, they think dying is contagious.
3:21 p.m.—My grandmother holds pictures on days like these. She wants everyone to see her boy. What a son he was! Look, do you see the resemblance in his son’s eyes, his only son who only comes once in a while, but in between she comforts herself in black. He’ll be back to hear stories of his father’s purple hearts, buried in the bottom drawer.
6:18 p.m.—Pressed up against a wooden paneled wall, my uncle smiles the smile touched by the Viet-Cong. In his doped up daze he can’t smell the red of blood, can’t hear the butt of the rifle, cracking against his mouth. He still smiles.
9:45 p.m.—My aunt lies on the couch. It’s too hot, too hot in here! Shoes, socks, tops disappear. Get her in the other room before she starts loving everybody. Everybody is beautiful. Oh baby, baby, she laughs. She is beautiful when she’s not sober. Bottle of Bacardi plays the looking glass. [End Page 250]
12:01 a.m.—Stepping out into the sweat of an old city, we sit on the stoop, look at our faces. This is our family. A crack in the sky, hurry up inside. Who knows the difference between cherry bombs and bullets anymore? Bullets stray. Come inside. Let the sounds of Bruckner Expressway stop at our red gate. [End Page 251]
Joann Quiñones is Associate Professor of English and Africana literatures at Earlham College.