A poem

"Big Nonnie" died on Good Friday.
In the hospital, his leg had turned black,
according to my mother. I was young and
never really knew what that meant. I only
know he died.

I never knew my other grandfather -
not even what to call him in Slovak,
as there was no need. He worked at the
steel mill and died there, long before I
was born, leaving my "Baba" to raise
fifteen children. When I knew her already
she was senile, and since she never
spoke English, I never knew what she
was saying to any one and to no one.

So, on this day - Good Friday - I remember
fish, Stations of the Cross, a lot of quiet and
bowing of heads in Catholic school, the
crucifixion, and of course, "Big Nonni".

So, on this day the sun is out along with the
first red tulip while others teeter on the edge.
Joy is in the house in the form of a two and a
half year old. But three o'clock, I will bow my
head and offer a "Hail Mary" for my big Nonni.