When The Cicadas Stopped Singing

By Jennifer Nigliazzo

On a cicada-strummed evening

In late August

Moonlit lizards climbing a scentless house

Across the street

Sank heavily on a knotted wooden chair

Nonno Giovanni.

A hot breeze smoothed

His silver-white hair

Large smooth hands peeled the

Spiky skin of a hot pink prickly pear.

I sat beside him,

The smell of boiled fresh tomatoes still lingering 

In the air

A sandwich with grilled fleishkaese

And greasy chips from Santo’s food truck

In my hands.

We chatted under the starlit sky

Outside aunt Vicenzina’s garage

Joking about how I stole the cherry goleadors

At uncle Roberto’s arcade.

Now here I sit again

An empty stomach

An empty heart

An empty chair beside me

And the cicadas have stopped singing.