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Chapter 16
"The circumnavigations
of the calendar"
is a phrase
I approximately used
in a previous chapter
I wrote it for
no one in particular
because no one
should be subjected to
such ornery phrasing
unless they understand
the poetic equivalent
of saying
as another year goes by
I've had 72 of them
but Plato didn't know
Vanna White or Pat Sajak
and
The Wheel of Fortune
I can spin my own wheel,
land on any year
and weave a yarn
related to that year
That is,
Mr. No One In Particular
can conjure up
seventy-two memories
given
seventy-two
different spins
I hereby spin the wheel
and land on 1981
more particularly:
May 7, 1981
I was in a lawyer's office
somewhere
on the North Shore
of Long Island
I distinctly remember
shaking hands
with Vincent King,
wishing him and his family well
and vice-versa
The next day,
me and my Volkswagen Rabbit
—with all my life's possessions—
were California-bound
Vincent's family consisted of a wife
and three children
None of those children
had ever met
their maternal grandparents
who were originally
my Mother and Father
Obviously,
that means their mother
was my sister
We had just attended
the closing of the sale
of our house
in Rocky Point
The house that was
a stone's throw
from this particular sight
Having the North Shore
of Long Island
in our "backyard"
qualified me as
a beach bum,
despite having never surfed
nor desiring
to ever do so
The house was in
the Oliverio family
for twenty-two years
but would never, ever
have been ours
if it weren't for
the blood, sweat, and toil
of Sam and Grace Oliverio
The grandchildren
they never met
could not have been
in better hands than
those of my sister
and Vincent King
Their stupid Uncle
would tirelessly tell stories
about the missing grandparents
but always with his tear ducts
in constant motion
Neither did the grandchildren
ever meet Aunt Linda
who started pushing daisies
four years after
Sam and Grace
started doing so
and three years before
the eldest of the King children
was born
Linda was eighteen
and I was fifteen
when this photograph
was taken
Our younger sister,
[the future wife of Vincent King]
was a nine-year-old girl
who was standing
right in front of us,
alongside the photographer
That would have been
either our Mother or Father
with the other
looking out the living room window
of our Whitestone home
At that time,
the house in Rocky Point
was our "summer home"
Then along came
that ubiquitous trickster
Death got the best
of my family,
carting off
three-fifths of it
by 1975
*
Vincent King
resembled an architect
in every way possible
except for the paycheck
Four years ago,
he had a massive stroke
Eight days ago,
my sister
and her three adult children
were at Vincent's bedside
The next day,
my brother-in-law
passed away
R.I.P.
Vincent
***
The next chapters
are here
The first chapters
of this autobiography
are there
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