The Glass Eye
by Luca Aiello
was made for him after an arrest or bar
fight, too heavy for my childhood mind to bear.
On Sundays after dinner, over plates of Chinese
takeout, he would call me over. I don’t remember
much about the old man—his thoughts, his passions,
the great, strange life he led—but I remember
those intimate gatherings well, where he would pluck
out his glass eye and wave it gently in front of me,
allowing me to stare and even touch its gooey
material, all the while cackling,
“I’ve got my eye on you.”
I move through these memories
of my grandfather towards more visceral
ones, not just of him but of all my grandparents:
laid out on sickbeds and stretchers, feet twitching
and mouths wheezing as my family bounced
across the metro area from hospital to hospital,
my sister and I testing out each of the cafés
for their popcorn and Pixar movies.
I felt claustrophobic, surrounded
by placid lights and medicine air, wanting
to race away from the insular world
of pale and static rooms to a brighter place
of outdoor breezes and endless games
with the other grandchildren in the backyard
of my grandparents’ homes—cozy, soothing homes
that felt like the warmest wintertime
cottage even in sun-baked seasons.
I remember those visits with my grandparents
not as kind ones filled with toys and candy but as cold,
clinical appointments, where I would stare
at their sleeping body, sometimes exchanging a smile
or looking at the tubes stuck to them, but mostly
staring at their sleeping body, when all I wanted to do
was hide under my grandmother’s gown or hold
my grandfather’s glass eye so that I could the connections
that were deep within it, even as I heard the same drivel
from my parents after entire weekends of grim silence
rolled by: “Things aren’t looking too hot for Grandma
Mary Ann, but we’re hoping she’ll push through,” “I’m
sorry to break it to you, bud, but there’s a solid chance
that Grandpa Lou may die,” “Let’s make a wish
that Grandpa Pat won’t go to heaven just yet.”
They never came true. Through glass eyes
and hospital gowns, of smoker’s lungs and failing
hearts, of promises that were lying and dying,
I pictured those funerals like a ceremony that closed
a mafia family’s saga, where distant relatives
commenced in bland suits and dresses to sob
around cathedrals in the Bronx, chamber music blaring
as caskets were drawn out. I felt as if chamber music
was blaring throughout the whole world on those days,
and after those services, when ancient Italian women kissed
my cheeks—certain, as much as a ten-year old boy could be,
that I would never die.