The role of immaginette in my life began when I was young. I remember seeing holy cards tucked on picture frames––pictures of angels stomping on the fiery heads of sinners, Saint Rita receiving the stigmata, Asian babies being baptized by angels and missionary nuns, and all the others which I’ve forgotten. These holy cards have been lost over time, but I still have three cards; the one just mentioned about Asian babies, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception––printed 1911 in Italy. These managed to survive. I have them tucked in a special book beside my bed. I feel comforted knowing they were handled by my mother and grandmother.
In the movie Moon Struck there is a great line––an Italian American character says to an American man; “I know what I come from.” These words ring true for me in the decades since childhood. Many times I saw Nonna kneeing at the foot of her bed praying Stations of the Cross from an old worn booklet with wonderful illustrations, and the small table in her bedroom crowded with painted plaster saints, and red votive candle burning. And of course, Nonna’s and Ma’s constant rosaries. I used to help Nonna cross the street so she could visit Sa’Rose to say prayers together.
I feel blessed to have the small tarnished crucifix from one of Nonna’s rosaries, and from Nonno’s casket a crucifix engraved with Tomaso Tacconelli 1957, and perched on top of the doorbell fixture in the dining room a chipped plaster Infant of Prague with a penny under his feet in order that I stay solvent. They provide a sense of belonging to something in the distant past which continues through me. The key is to remember, as I do in some poems. They live in these poems and a part of me lives too.
Nonna’s Rosaries
| Rosaries, endless recitation of rosaries, earnest prayers for whom, for what–– were they answered ever. From one of your broken rosaries I kept a small tarnished silver crucifix, its corpus worn smooth from fingered prayers. Perhaps they were answered, was it countless rosaries that protected me in my yet unfurled future. | As a child, to your gratitude’s amazement, I threaded needles mending rips and holes in hand-me-down clothes. Dear Nonna, we are becoming forgotten, soon I must bid farewell to loves whose loveliness is my undoing––will your faithful rosaries guide me across eternity to be with those who’ve rejected me, will my shameful follies be at last forgiven. |
Holy Cards
| 1. Tucked inside the birthday card, cousins Joe and Liz sent today, a saccharine holy card––plastic laminated Saint Joseph cradling in his arms the Child Jesus. | 2. They came one day, not elite Knights of Columbus, but two smooth talking Masons promising more business, more money, success if my father became one of their members. Grease stained hands opened the ornate National Cash Register, pulled out a holy card, Saint Joseph, patron saint of workers, and then my father said, “This is my religion.” |
– Al Tacconelli