Daniel Bosco

Spaghetti Al Dente in the Window

I would kill to look through that window again – to see my nonna and nonno waving back at us as our old red Honda Chevrolet pulled out from their driveway. To look back at their home, that to ten-year-old me stood as tall as the empire state building and as disheveled as the leaning tower. I feel shaken at the thought of a new family pulling down the discolored kitchen wallpaper, repointing the brick fence that outlined their vegetable garden, or replacing the gas stoves that boiled an inconceivable number of pasta dinners.