My best friend, Mary and I,
sat through the movie twice.
We cried so hard that a stranger 
passed us some Kleenex.
As we left the Embassy Theater,
the wet wind lashed
around our legs
and blew our hair
in all directions.
Holding a huge umbrella
over our heads
we walked arm and arm
down the avenue
wearing our red rubber boots

We window shopped at Shirlane’s,
Corduroy Village, and Little Marcy’s,
pretending we’d come back 
to buy the fuzzy angora sweaters
and the plaid pleated skirts.
Some boys rode by, whistled, 
then hollered, “Lezzies!”
We quickly unlinked our arms
and shouted back, “Jerks!”

I don’t recall the name of the movie
we saw that day.
But I’ll always remember wading 
through puddles
laughing and talking 
huddled under our umbrella.
                        

I am three living at Auntie Anna’s house
in Long Island because Mama, a single parent,
has to work in a factory during the week.
One Sunday, a visitor brings me a porcelain doll
with brown braids and shiny amber eyes.
I sit in the parlor as the grownups talk.
I am sleepy and the nice man 
carries me up the stairs.
I rest my head on his shoulder
holding on to my dolly with my other hand.
He tucks me in and kisses me on my cheek.
Lying in my bed, I hear the hum of voices below,
so I creep quietly out of bed and see my Auntie
saying good night to the nice man.

Years later, I am a mother with three teenagers,
when my Aunt Anna comes to visit me
all the way from Virginia.
I ask, “Was that man
who gave me the doll my father?”
Smiling Aunt Anna only says, 
Yes, that was Bob.
He was such a gentleman.

Like a quilt maker, I piece it together:
Mom had woven a story that my father 
was Robert Smith, a sailor, who died at sea 
when I was a baby.
I close my eyes and try to remember it all.
He picks me up, carries me up the stairs.
I notice his palm is injured,
crushed somehow, but I don’t know why.
I see him putting on his winter coat.
He notices me peeking down at him
and smiles from the foot of the stairs.