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D AV I D C I T I N O Shovel Nonno fits a hand to the top of my head. I’m a prince. “Come sta?” I know the answer to the question, when it comes from him: “Bene, bene, I’m good, Pop.” W. 105th , Cleveland. He and Nonna live up, Uncle Dominic and his family, down. In the garden out back, the grape arbor a tunnel to Calabria, purple stars shiver in evening foundry breeze. Railroad ties span 52 years on the B & O. Stink of creosote marks the plot. A peasant Adam, he makes words with magic stones. “Hey, boy: Fico, fig,” he intones, tossing a pebble with care as if this scrawny scrabble is the Tree of Life. “Aglio,” pebble, “garlic,” aromas my friends mock me for, and “pomidoro, tomato.” Nonna will put up in jars the marinara laced with basil leaves, oregano, thyme to last Ohio’s winter, a life. He shows me the beauty of the shovel. I climb the blade top, first one step, then the next. Ground breaks beneath my feet, oldest scents. I balance on the ache and hope of work. 300 ❚ The 2000s ...

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