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I am not sure whether I am missing you or that you are missing life~

                       In Spring you like to smell the grass. 
                                      The flowers,
                 oh, how they engage the hillside with splendor;
                  bobbing their heads like 5th Avenue bonnets.
                                    A new beginning.
                  It is in the Spring I will remember you most.

                     The Summer gives way to week-end trips, 
                    escaping the futile task of financial survival;
                       off to the country, in touch with nature.
         Long walks, looking back only to see how far you’ve come.
                         Montauk, the beach and surf lure you.
                            The quiet and still speak to you.
                               You are one with the sea.

             The family picnics far from picnic fare, we feasted.
                          Appetites abolished, we chat
                        to the rhythm of the family glider~
                  Clickety-clack,clickety-clack, back and forth, 
                           it will be empty without you.
           It is in the summer I will remember you most.

                 In Fall you admire the vibrant colors of the trees; 
                       crimson, burnt umbers and golds.
                   You lift your face to the warmth of the sun 
                and feel the gentle breeze that serenades you.
                 The ghouls and goblins will come to my door,
                     I will see you there, trying to scare me,
              I pretend to be frightened by your scariest voice
                and most vile expression...Ha Ha~fooled yah!

                    On Thanksgiving I prepare a turkey 
               with all the trimmings, traditional and not.
                               Your seat is empty, 
                      your glass of brandy untouched.
                             Are you late again?
               It is in the fall I will remember you most.

                         There is a chill in the air; 
                a briskness that clings to one’s soul.
                  Strong winds blow, the snow flies.  
          You are wearing your beret, and inside your 
          well worn leather boots, your feet are bare.
                                                                     
                 You are drawn to the jubilant voices 
              at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine,
                            It is Christmas Eve.
                The tree is trimmed; the stockings are full.
           You travel from the city limits to the country side.
                       I see you standing at my door, 
             bearing boxes of luscious Italian pastries.
               You are late, but I am glad you have come, 
                      if only in my fondest memories.

             The snow grows deeper; January is upon us~
                              Happy Birthday!
           It is in the winter I will remember you most.


Memories of my Brother, Peter Thomas Scangarello
He was a devotee and actor of the theatre. 
Walked to the beat of a different drum~
lived hard and died young.
Born: January 28, 1945 
Died: September 13, 1990
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