A Letter From Home

Posted: October 15, 2014 in Family Stories
     Ten days ago Aurelio Nuzzo came five-seconds close to being zipped inside a body bag
     chest bleeding, legs broken.  
     Luckily three men had arrived minutes after his Huey went down.  
     Guy manning the zipper shouted, "Hey! Dude's movin'. Medevac him!" 
     Forget the damn wounds, one more pull of the zipper and he would have suffocated inside a big black bag.

     The sheets on the hospital bed are better than sex.  Yeah! Aurelio thinks this.  
     They smell sweet and feel soft, come all the way up to his neck.
     Best of all they don't care what position (mainly flat on his back) 
     or disposition (mainly angry with pain) he's in.
     
     "Mail!" the nurse shouts.   
     Aurelio thinks that - even though he is flat on his back - this blonde cutie 
     might be just what the doctor ordered. 
     Later.
     
     The handwriting on the envelope is small and tight.  
     Mom.  Cool.  
     There isn't another woman as cool as his mom.  
     Really.  Anna Nuzzo is the best. 
     All the guys in the neighborhood say so. 
     "Hey! Nuzzo we don't care if your mom's right off the boat.  She's cool."
     
     Anna Nuzzo strolled off the boat ten years ago
     nine-year-old Aurelio clamped in one hand, his sister Bettina locked tight in the other.
     But his dad, his dad, Umberto Nuzzo, cook on the SS Andrea Doria, 
     had frickin' jumped ship, yeah, defected to New York City, in 1956.  
     "Thank God," Anna often said.  
     'Cause the ship sank on the next voyage from Italy to the U.S. of frickin' A.
  
     Aurelio rips the top off the envelope.  
     Can't wait to see what Mom has to say.  
     A picture falls on his chest.  
     The woman in the picture looks like his mom.  
     Short, dark-haired, a bit heavy in the hips.
  
     Ney, can't be.  This woman is wearin' pants.  
     Anna Nuzzo does not, ever, never, no way in hell, wear pants.

           Dearest Aurelio,
           I know you won't believe it but this is me! Wearing pants! 
           Your dad says he'll never talk to me again.  
           He'll get over that. 
           I also got a driver's license and bought a white Mustang convertible. 
           Maybe by the time you get home from Viet Nam, 
           he'll at least say hello in the morning.
           As always, Mom

      And, yeah, Umberto did talk to Anna.
      Later
      But he never rode in the car.
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Comments
  1. Sarah Ann says:

    Love the pact, short-breathedness of this, and the voice. Would love to know what sparked Anna to make the changes in her life.

    Liked by 1 person

    • You know I would like to know that, too! All of this actually happened – the Viet Nam part, the back story about the SS Andrea Doria, the pants and the mustang. My friend Aurelio told me these details of his life (of course as a story teller, I combined and embellished – with his permission) but I never asked why did you mom change so drastically? It was the 1960’s so maybe it was time for Anna to break free. Thanks for reading. Alicia

      Like

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