Being Where I Want to Remember

Aunt Anna never drove a car – well, except for that time she tried. The dark blue Hudson got strung up on the high curb outside 1064 Pine – its back bumper against the phone pole at the sidewalk’s edge.

I was seven before I knew her name was ‘Anna.’ (The coal region slur mingled the words – we called her, “Andana.”) I was eight before I knew that Uncle Sammy was her brother, not her husband. I was seventeen before I knew she was still a virgin. I was forty-three when she died that way.

My mother was raised in that tiny house with four adults plus Joannie during the summer. There was only a toilet; aside the stall – between that and the shelves with the canned goods - they leaned the large galvanized tub that they’d fill with water for a bath. We would hear Uncle Sammy call up from in the basement kitchen, “Annie, come wash my back for me would ya?” My sister would say “Eeeeww!” with her lips but stop the sound from coming out. My mother would tell me to pick up the toys before we left and I’d put them in the sea-foam green bucket that was kept behind the couch. Though it lacks some of the best toys it held then, like the red Cadillac with the white interior, the bucket is in my studio. It is tucked back on the shelf near what I claim to be my father’s childhood violin - or what is left of it.

I keep things like that - or facsimiles - in my studio hoping that their histories will leak out and seep in.