There was a time, which I recall
long ago, when the summer came
and we were young
and the fireworks took over the sky.
I talk about this often
when the nostalgia kicks up.
I think about the innocence of youth
or the feel of dipping your toes
in a pool of cold water, or too cold,
in fact and during a hot morning.
I was thinking about Mom
and The Old Man
and the way our little town was somewhat innocent
and how suburbia was so much different
back then.
At least to me, or to my unseeing eyes
or perhaps my eyes were untrained
or unknowing of what I was looking at.
I was not bogged down by ideas
like cancel cultures
or identity politics.
I might have had questions
or insecurities
but I was not troubled by ideas
of gender or gender fluidity
nor was I inundated by the topics
of sexual choices or freedoms
which I do not denounce by any means;
however, I i think what I’m trying to outline
more than explain
is that there was time when It was okay
to be a kid and just be young
without the need for identity.
I tell you, the world was a much different place.
And the ice cream truck
used to come through the side streets
of our town.
Then there was the town pool on Prospect.
There were the baseball fields over on Merrick
and there were the summer carnivals
which came around
at the same time, every year.
God, I miss them.
I miss the lights and the sounds
and the games and prizes.
It was okay to be young back then.
Or at least, it seemed to be okay.
It was okay because
there was a little town,
known to me as the town of East Meadow—and yes,
I swear it now and I’ll swear this
until the day that I die—you never forget
the kids from the neighborhood.
I love them all, to this day, and I always will
regardless of how we split
or whether we’d fallen or risen
or sunk
or swam.
I saw something last night
which brought back a stir of memories,
which I have not thought about
for a long, long time.
The Old Man was young,
which I guess it would be safe to say
that The Old Man wasn’t so old back then.
Mom was young too and to me,
the world was still a very new place.
The 70’s were about to end
and the 80’s were on its way.
I am a 1972 kid
and proud nonetheless.
I was young enough
to still believe in fantasy
and hopeful enough to believe in things
like the man on the moon
or the stories which said
that perhaps one day,
we might be living on the moon too.
My Grandmother was still alive . . .
She was the Queen.
She knew how to help me rest
or make me feel better
or solve any challenge
or help me understand
the uncommon things.
I wish I could see this all,
the way it was back then,
and I wish I could go and visit this
and somehow, if I could,
I’d like to take a grain of sand with me,
like a grain of sand from the beach,
which I had from when I was a kid
just to remember the trip.
I wonder though, if my version of heaven
will be this way, like it was,
perfect and youthful
and everyone was happy . . .
I want this now, a view or a visit,
or a memory
like the one I had from last night.
I want a picnic or a gathering or a moment
when I can feel the touch from my Grandmother’s hand,
soft like a rose petal and aged,
wrinkled, but magical as ever.
I need some magic today,
or some hope or hopefulness.
I need to get away, just for a moment
and find myself where I was –
or like I was, back then,
young and unforgivably free enough
to enjoy the sunset behind my childhood home
at good old 277 Merrick . .
I could dig it all
or take it all in
while sipping on a glass of Mom’s iced tea,
and by the way –
To this day,
I have never had a glass of iced tea
come anywhere near as good
as a glass like my Mom’s.
The Written Addiction 