Ode To Nicola Fabiano

I remember I was a little girl sent off on an errand by my dad surrounded by a small group of men marveling at the questions I answered well their surprise subsiding when they heard the tax collector was my great grand dad. He was an actor, merchant, ran a bank a poet and play writer as well on stage wore a suit made of shells to announce his entrance with a laugh. A generous, good looking man when he died, my dad was maybe ten at his funeral in hundreds they went to honor their tax collector friend. It was a village of grand street lamps individually lit by hand women carried burdens on their heads skirts to their ankles and in black to honor the memory of their dead. Grapes were stampede, olives pressed wheat shafts were gathered by hand stone ground and slowly turned to bread. The houses were unlocked and people slept for each person knew the other well the only new in town were the birds The book that he composed I never read it was lost to be never found again. I inherited his spirit as they said and for that I feel humbled and glad A saying repeated by my dad to chase away fears and give strength probably invented by his grand dad that I like to immortalize with a pen: Make yourself a lamb and the wolf will eat you.