Sundays With Nonno and Nonna

Nonno's pomegranates were weekly Christmas
presents. The garnet wrapping was not glittery
and so easy to tear, but the tangy kernels inside
were worth the nicks on my fingers and purple
stains in my skin that required four scrubbings
to wash out. Ciofi the cat's pistachio green eyes
were lined as though a makeup artist had traced
them in black pencil. She feared affection, hissing
at anyone who tried to pet her. She folded her
paws beneath her chest and sat like a contented
chicken inside a cardboard box on the radiator.
Her body fit perfectly within the rectangle as stray
hairs peeked over the edges like the sprouts of a
Chia pet. She jumped off the radiator when Nonna
extended an arm with bread in her flour-dappled
hands, mumbling Italian words that I could have
sworn Ciofi understood. I passed time in the
garden of grapes and morning glories picking up
ants and watching them travel up the mounds and
down the dips of my palms and fingers with the
zeal of a college graduate backpacking across
Europe. Funny how fearless we were as children,
how the creatures that fascinated us then make
us cringe as adults. Nonna fed Ciofi pasta with
tomato sauce for dinner. Ciofi swept her tongue
over her chops in satisfaction, as she had no other
choice. Nonno made wine in the basement and
served it in a bowl with peaches. I consumed
every bit of it with no need to pretend.