Mr Mascellani's Musings

The aroma of olives, cheese, cold meats, and coffee beans
reminds Joe of his father who didn’t make it to Australia.

Tortured and shot dead like a dog and tossed into the streets like a pig.

Joe, with the taste of rage, revenge, and grief- rancid and bitter in his throat,
had wanted to run to him.
But his mother and an aunt stopped him.
That’s what the government death squad had wanted.
Back home, in the village,
he had cried until it felt as though somebody else was crying
and he was merely a witness to his own mourning.

The feel of the touch of his 6 year old daughter's hand on his own
brings Joe’s mind back to the present, to the shop.
“The lady’s talking to you, Dad”
The lady is a blonde, about 23;
her white uniform squeezes her body, exaggerating the presence of her breasts.
Joe consciously doesn’t stare at them.
The sun shines on them, through a window
Like a spot light, like some cosmological trouble maker.

“Can I serve you?” she asks.
Her voice is like a bird’s,
like that happy blue bird on his daughter’s favorite DVD.

“Two falafels, one black coffee and a chocolate milkshake, have here”

“Dad, this milkshake tastes sensational like a kiss from a chocolate fairy.”
says his daughter.
'Sensational' being a word that her father overuses,
as did the grandfather she never met.

“Rebel Leader Shot Dead By Opposing Faction” was the headline run by government sanctioned newspaper