Fresh off the Post

Treasure the Foundations

Back in the 90’s, I can recall those days with my family driving from my little corner of Somerset NJ just to see my grandparents and crazy uncle in the Southside, of Williamsburg. I would be in the back, playing around with my batman action figure while my older brother sat next to me listening to Tupac, Mom stared out the window and Dad continued to drive. We’d pass other cars, with little kids such as myself with their moms and dads; I’d wonder where they would go. I could look outside my window, and see the endless line of Transformers and energy containers that propagated the highway and smell the uninviting odor of engine gas. The feeling of hot leather stuck to my leg, and my stomach feeling nauseous  because I didn’t eat only made the trip more normal.

            We would arrive in Williamsburg, the green BQE lane would suspend over us, and I’d hear the constant humming of engines and wheels. Here’s shade, cool and comforting. I’d get outside, stretch my legs and run outside the car to the welcoming sight of my grandfather. He was the down to earth, urban St. Francis to the hood. I could remember all the cats and dogs he feed and took care of in the building’s basement. If I was hungry, he’d spend his last quarter on matching sure my stomach wasn’t growling. I’d see him standing there, clean shaven, whispy white hair, and clean clothes; a sign of someone proud, a person that anybody would want to be friends with. He’d take me, my older brother Jason and parents up to his place. Without even asking, he’d feed us immediately; ask us a million questions about how we’re doing. Grandma Maria would sit in her rocker, watching tele-dramas over the humming of the rickety fan and gaze at Jason and I with a slight tear falling down. My crazy Uncle Louie would come up the stairs yelling and chant to the other neighbors that we have arrived. I would sit in that wicker chair, play with Grandpa’s newfound toys and watch the glistening of my father’s eyes when he talked to Grandpa. No violence or gunplay ever rose from the building. We were in solace, yellow tiled walls, a piss smelling hallway that separated us from the what happened outside, and neighboring sentries that always talked to us about what we were, not how were doing. The visits were brief, I was young and I didn’t appreciate how special those times were. I only knew I was in NY, seeing Grandpa. Brooklyn didn’t matter to me, I was with him.

            Some years pass, and I I’m suddenly 18, and they’re gone. I’m now closer to my grandparents than I’ve ever been, but I can’t visit them. They’re building is someone else stoop, a different place where the roaches are insidious, the people are cautious and the hallway smells of something else. I can never go there again. Slowly, within another few years, that place will be gone too. It’ll probably become a thrift store or Urban Outfitters. My father would tell me of all the wisdom and insights his parents gave him, but he didn’t listen until they were near death. My mother’s mom just turned 83, and I haven’t spoken to her either, I can’t, I don’t know enough Spanish and she doesn’t know enough English.  I feel guilty.  I don’t want to listen to my dad’s sayings, yet what he says keeps coming back to me as truth. He would tell me that the greatest treasures that his mother told him were my dad and his brothers. Now he turns and says the same to me. I question now, who will I be and what can treasure for them?