Kathy from the Bronx
by Cole Solis Jativa
For Kathy Caraccio
The other day, packing to go home,
my apron shook the wrong way, I said
babies and Metrocard prongs!
Only Kathy would get that.
First time I met her, she wore
a diamond-studded magenta hat.
She was funny with her soft eyes
and pinned up hair. I felt she carried time
in her pocket. Wisdom as a blanket.
Bookshelves covered every visible
wall surface. There was a
Charles Brand Etching Press
smack in the middle of her box.
A pantry shelf, glass tables,
hundreds of ink cans,
flat files up the wazoo,
and her desk facing
the window, gazing at 38th Ave.
Then I got to know her and
discovered our synonymous
snack-giving love language.
Our affection for clementines
and the origin of words.
She loves being read to—
jokingly mentioning it’s one
of the reasons she's been
with Joe for over 50 years.
Gift-giving love language.
For Christmas this year,
she gave me a manual
tube squeezer.
You start to collaborate
on an artist book.
Always brined in satiation,
she proposed
three times
after I made us porchetta sandwiches.