Niece
Last week when my baby brother’s wife
gave birth to their first child, a girl,
I was visiting my old girlfriend and
her twelve year old, Jesse, in Vermont.
Today, I’m standing on their Long Island steps
waiting for someone to come to the door.
My brother grabs my jacket, leads me
down the hall with this dazed half smile.
No one in my family knows how to talk
about anything that matters, but our eyes collide
and I sense we both recognize how different,
warm and charged, this piece of quiet feels.
His wife walks across the living room carrying
a too pink bundle, humming almost imperceptibly.
She’s wearing gray sweats and looks tousled,
softer, more beautiful than I thought possible.
I can’t tell if the baby is as pretty as my mother-
delighted to be a grandmother for the third time-
insisted over and over during our long distance call
or if she looks like anyone in anybody’s family.
I nod and my brother’s wife leans closer, places
the baby in my arms and I can’t believe how tiny
this little girl is, how every single finger is a bigger
miracle than anything I’ve seen in too many years.
Riding the railroad home, I’ll glide by abandoned
buildings, vacant lots and stalled construction sites,
wonder why I never wanted anything this wonderful
to happen to me, if I’ll miss it more the older I get.
I’ll think about what Jesse means to me, how easy
it is to be generous, to simply love him unconditionally
from far away and whether I’d turn into myself
become a selfish, impatient, too strict father up close.
But right now, Alexis Leigh is resting in my lap
occasionally yawning and stretching, letting
the pacifier slip out of her mouth and I’m rocking
gently doing all I can to keep her happy.
*
Table Talk
When what’s left of my family
gets together, we order out,
pizza, chicken. Unless I bring up
mom or dad, no one mentions
them and I try not to miss
Mom’s cooking most. Sometimes
my brother Jaime’s wife asks
my sister Donna about her sons
or husband, since no one’s
seen them in over five years.
They’re always doing, you know,
the same. Nobody ever says
our brother’s name, John.
They haven’t talked to him
since Mom died and he didn’t show
up to her funeral. I don’t remember
if it was because he didn’t agree
with the way we took care of her
at the end, how he never felt part
of it or they think he didn’t help
enough. Yeah, all of the above.
I’ve seen him twice since, lunches
at diners with friends we played
schoolyard ball with. I call maybe
monthly, make sure he’s alive.
He never picks up his cell, but calls
back days later. We talk sports
for a bit. He tells me about cats
and I pretend to listen. We end up
arguing politics, viciously. I sent him
a check this frigid winter. Around
the table, I learn my niece got
her driver’s license last month,
they’re shopping for a new car
and visiting colleges. Definitely
nothing urban or too crowded.
My nephew’s trying out for tennis
If the rain stays away after school
Monday. A freshman, he thinks
he has a chance to make varsity,
a definite for jay-vee. I am tempted
to bring up my new book, maybe
mention I’m starting to feel my age,
running out of breath walking up
subway steps, that scary time
carrying laundry to the corner
like Santa shouldering a sack,
the last thirty feet or so, feeling
light-headed. veering to the right
like a drunk starting to topple
over, balancing myself against
the building’s wall. Instead,
I ask Daniel to pass me
some more mac n cheese.
*
Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review. His collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and his new book Here On Earth came out 1/26 on NYQ Books.
