The Bread Wreath

When my sons were little,
they wanted Wonder Bread
instead of Italian,
afraid to be different.
Then they discovered
that anything Italian
was good, fashionable.
And now they’re grown up.
They ask about the past,
that other country,
“familiar and strange.”
And sometimes I tell them.
On Sunday my brother
stopped by the Bread Works
on the way over
and bought us a collùra
to have with our dinner.
"Still warm from the oven,"
deliciously fragrant
as only that kind of bread can be.
As we broke it into pieces
and passed it around the table
I told my children
about the seven wreaths of bread
my mother gave to the poor
on the anniversary of his death
to eat in remembrance
of my father, and of the six men
who had died with him.

Rina FERRARELLI