Nothing you can do after the pieces shatter, “not my fault” or “I had no choice” sound like the beginning of a weak excuse, a bad joke, or a round-about confession, no rules in the universe can un-throw the pillow when playing in the jurisdiction of coincidence, and yet my grandmother is first to separate fact from fiction, as she deciphers who’s lying least, and after all, shouldn’t the oldest set an example? she knows I have no monopoly on timing, a step behind and a beat too slow for the punchline, and only now I try to reassemble the pieces, as if superglue can put together this string of what ifs.
Nothing you can do when some of the pieces are missing, like why begin a game of dodge ball in a living room with breakables like a precious Mayan ceramic bull? or why throw pillows at younger brothers in pajamas hiding behind sofas? or how could the game point be worth more than the protection of something of value to my mother? a little sacrifice outside of time could have gone a long way to preserve the white lie of slow-mo football on our knees, rolling around the family room floor, lost in play until the final impact stops the clock and places the entire field in time out. Nothing like a turn for the worst when everyone is having fun, except my grandmother and the ceramic bull now head and horns tilt upside down beside its rear end, brown tail beneath the torso, and a hoof or two on the rug under the walnut cabinet RCA House of Sound, with amplifier, turntable and speakers of high fidelity, we sit youngest-to-oldest on the living room floor, my grandmother’s stern Sicilian gaze interrogates with silence to encourage self-examination, a choice between the devil and the confessional, sin and redemption, and yet our supreme worry is how to break the news to my mother.
Nothing like new rules for old stories when the sound of breaking ceramic releases the mother of invention, so like forensic archeologists we tape and glue the pieces filling in the gaps with paste then disguise the rest with brown and white paint until the bull appears even more ancient though less Mayan than before, and we rehearse and reinvent the opportunity to make it right, to believe a fragile patch of forgiveness will hold when we confess how her precious piece of art became a consequence of play, and when she returns home to see the broken promises of best behavior and no rough-housing, she teaches us a lesson priceless and beyond our years and not worthy of our father’s poor excuse of boys will be boys.
Nothing prepares us for the hurt look in her eye, the faraway gaze as if outside the snow was speaking in an ancient language telling her about the way of children and mothers and precious objects on a shelf, and she tells us in anger everything is broken, promises, dreams, people, she scares us seeing into the dark that way as if losing her religion and then my youngest brother—no older than 2 at the time-- tugs on her skirt and reaches up for a hug a gesture of comfort, shelter, forgiveness and in a whisper of faith, she says what’s broken in this world comes together in the next.
