Turquoise Dress

Snapshot from my neighborhood: A man walks by with a little girl. Tan skin, red lips, dark eyes, turquoise flowered sundress. Spring comes to Philly! She’s not his daughter, she’s his girlfriend’s daughter. He has white pants; you think you can see his legs through the fabric when the sun’s a certain way behind him but it’s an illusion. His hair dyed uniformly, color of a wild animal raised in domesticity since birth, glossy and of no use to itself. He talks to the ladies in Italian so American even I understand: A birthday party of his Nonna at Ristorante Villa di Roma, his father from Calabria, a small mountain village. He speaks Italian—elbow on knee, one loafer (white) propped on the step—because Serafina, the only Neapolitan for blocks, took one dark look at the bud-lipped girl, said “Italiana!” The girl doesn’t know Italian, goes twirlingly down the street plucking the hem and straps of her turquoise dress to Serafina’s puny plum tree, stands under it, spies back to see if she can pull down some pretty purple leaves without Serafina noticing. But doesn’t dare.