“Swiss Cheese”
My Dad adored Swiss Cheese.
On hot summer nights,
He would stand in his briefs,
In the darkened kitchen.
Sifting through the sparse contents of a poor family’s fridge.
Determine what was good,
And what had spoiled.
Lighting the second floor apartment from a singular point.
All that cast their view up to our windows,
Saw a silhouette of hunger dancing across drawn window shades.
Shades that moved minimally in the remnants of the minimal Mystic River breeze.
And there, the search continued until the old man arrived at the clandestine deli drawer.
Here the treasure of treasures could be found.
Of an international flair,
At least nominally.
Swiss Cheese produced satiety.
Crinkling plastic wrappers,
Keeping a wolf at bay.
Temporarily.
The sweaty gorge eventually began.
Eating each slice,
At first tenderly,
But, then tearing and jamming.
Witnessing such intimacy between a man and his food was memorable.
If a childhood could be measured and was stretched from samples of Swiss Cheese, to cinnamon-sugared toast, to lazy-man’s lasagna served from a black speckled roasting pan;
Then childhood was a feast.
My Dad adored Swiss Cheese.
And, it turns out…
So do I.
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