FROM NOVEL TO PROSE

                                    FROM NOVEL to PROSE

As you read “The Fruit Men Won,” and understand this is part

of a true story, written both in prose and as a memoir – it

specifically gives you some idea what to expect in the novel,

spelling out situations, conditions, details of life.  Many of my

prose poems are exactly this; part of my novel of four generations,

in a series of four books from 1897 to present day.

I began to review the pages of the manuscript and fell in love with many of the scenes – read them aloud and decided to make them into prose poems, or poetic memoir.  I wanted to share this with you so you can compare this to a post to actual written work for the novel.  I will be posting the written work soon.

Sincerely, Nancy

                                    

THE FRUIT MEN WON

A black wreath collects flakes of snow - for a fruit man.
A black wreath nailed to a door of old wood –
signifying death – decorated by early snow in November -
white snow – white like the soul of a fruit man.

Men and women begin to ascend steps – dressed
in black, close now to the porch while each footstep
crushed dead leaves.

 
“God, why have you taken John, a young man, a
husband, a father of three sons?”  

“He wasn’t ready for the other side,” a man said
as he reached the turn at the top of the stairs. 

Men and women climbed a narrow staircase – the smell
of cedar from hand sewn drapes covering
a stained glass window – a window facing Seneca
Street – they would turn, take four more steps to
the second floor – a mahogany door is open.

Here friends have gathered to pray – to stare at death,
to stare at a corpse missing blood, blood drained
into the bath tub – to see John placed between bow
windows in his parlor, where he would normally besitting
listening to the radio, and his three sons near his chair.

Flowers took up space in front and in back of his
casket – all you heard is the dripping of ice into a
bucket; water keeping his body cold. 

Women have gathered in the kitchen – all speak of
three long days, longer then others – as Nancy
stared at her husband, prayed at the head of the
casket, cried all night – while her three boys remained
close by.   

She would lay on their bed, cover her face with her pillow,
and pillowcase touched her face - one she made with her
own hands with words in Italian, “John my Husband.”Her
fingers felt the stitching as she recalled the day
she folded each pillowcase to bring to her new home,
and now it catches tears.  

Her head on the pillow where her husband was left to
die – not knowing heaven was so close – not knowing to
stay by his side. 

Women talked in the kitchen as they poured a bit of
espresso, a slice of hot bread – one woman said, “She will
never recall who was here, who drank homemade wine,
who ate, or cooked homemade bread – or will she
remember who hugged her, wiped her tears, kissed
her cheeks and tasted salt on their lips. She will never
know who felt her pain.”

John – she thought – he never cared about one gold
tooth, he watched her laugh and saw a smile shine with
gold.  He never mentioned her worn out aprons she wore
as she twisted clothes, over, and over, as water fell into
their bathtub like John’s blood.  John, never saw pinholes
on her favorite dress, the one she wore when traveling to
their home following their wedding day.  

God took her sunlight in the winter of her life then left her
with three sons to bring up alone in a world where
immigrants were frowned upon.

She would talk about the undertaker – tell her friends they
drained John’s blood into their tub on Monday morning –
three days John would rest between bow windows where
Nancy’s plants grew strong in the afternoon light.  She knew
his soul had left days before and traveled through white
light.

She will not recall friends staring into the casket, or
their comments, “How young he looked.” He slept in
peace between her homemade drapes hanging on bow
windows. He slept peaceful near a photograph of his
sons at the head of his casket.

She will not remember friends who washed dishes,
or those who prepared the food, cleaned her house, and
a few who stayed with her day and night. She never
heard two friends whisper, “What will happen, three
small boys?” 

John, has slept beneath the earth for years – Nancy
would walk some twenty blocks or more to his grave,
and place flowers from her garden near his name.

As age began to take a toll – her feet began to swell,
her hands would shake as she placed flowers near
his name; she never complained.

 
She talked with John, laughing, knowing he was laughing
too as her gold tooth caught the sunlight.  Her walk home,
slower – nodding hello to strangers sitting on their porch.
On her walk home she promised John she would stay strong,

and one day meet at heaven’s gate.  

Alone at his resting place is where her tears would
fall onto marble, crouched on her knees, on
snow, moist grass, on leaves, on ice – she prayed aloud,
and touched his photograph.

“John your friend Ralph,” – she talked on her knees, “he tried

to help – was killed on snake hill on the way to court – his life
ended there in Syracuse, but I know you know because he is there
with you.” As if she was trying to convince herself she did all she
could, and lost the fight; in the end the fruitmen won.  

(c)2012 all rights reserved

Nancy Duci Denofio