Each time he comes to our house
To give me a trumpet lesson,
He arrives in a large SUV
And tells us his family
Hasn’t visited in ages.
He drinks an espresso,
Spreads pages of music
On the stand,
And instead of playing,
He talks about Sicily.
Mount Etna in the distance,
His grandfather’s old village,
Olives and rosemary . . .
The only place
He feels at home.
Brookline, Massachusetts
