missing positano by cameron price

When I close my eyes, I am in my kitchen. I can feel the crisp air from the open windows

on either side of the stove. I spy leaves rustling against the stone sidewalk, but otherwise the

backyard is still, silent, and serene. I gaze at the tiled mural of Positano, Italy on the backdrop of

the stove where the brick used to be. I smell the last cup of Keurig-brewed coffee (definitely

French Vanilla) and know without looking that it is politely requesting “More water, please.” 

The sunflower-painted plates and bowls are in the drying rack, along with the ugly blue-

green drinking cups that always remind me of Advil liquid gels. A single mason jar sits in the

sink, a layer of pulp circling the bottom of the glass. (Mom must have forgotten to buy the pulp-

free Tropicana.) I admire my 230-pound Mastiff, sleepy and child-like, for teaching us all a

lesson by not being self-conscious of his wrinkles and weight. He is nestled in his usual spot in

front of the oven, a trail of slobber leading to the bathroom, an obvious sign that he has just

refreshed himself with toilet water. The refrigerator, which many of my friends have described as

the biggest fridge they’ve ever seen, is bejeweled in newspaper clippings of the honor roll, my

siblings’ names underlined in red ink. There are framed middle school pictures pinched between

magnetic school stickers and the steel door, a progressive timeline of each of my siblings’

braces, cringy hair bows and acne. Tacky magnets from crowded souvenir shops outline a

disoriented map of our family vacations, and without having to lift the silly memorabilia from

the refrigerator door, I know each is personalized with the year it was bought in black, fine-point

Sharpie.   

Dad is standing in front of the stove, confidently flaunting his shredded, musty, dull gray

Colgate University t-shirt that he’s worn for as long as I can remember. Right on cue, my sister

comments on his uncanny fashion choice, but I think to myself that Dad wouldn’t be Dad if he

wasn’t concocting a new recipe dressed in what can only be described as the equivalent to a kid’s

security blanket. 

It is Sunday, which means Dad is making pasta. But it is not just pasta. It is a savory,

saucy, delectable creation that is never the same as last week’s and certainly will be different

from the next. Bacon grease spouts from the stove, the stench of garlic salt floods my nose, and

endless boxes of Barilla pasta are stacked on the counter like a game of Tetris. Andrea Bocelli’s

voice serenades every room as Mom presses play on our ancient stereo. Every day of the week,

Mom has to incessantly summon us to the dinner table. But on Sundays, we have been seated at

the table, mouths watering, since Dad started cooking. 

We sit down at the wood-stained kitchen island amidst growing piles of homework, bills,

sticky notes and miscellaneous junk. In front of me rests 3 heaping spoonfuls of gemelli

smothered in chunky tomatoes and creamy sauce, neatly scooped into one of those sunflower-

painted ceramic bowls. Dad, always a stickler for table manners, reminds us to place the napkins

on our laps. After a simultaneous eye roll from the peanut gallery, we comply, but know we’ll

need the extra protection against the splatters of red-orange sauce that are attracted to our clothes

like magnets. Between slurps and chews, we compare the stresses of sixth grade with the gossip

of high school, the scandals from the country club with the rumors from the law firm.

When I open my eyes, I am in a kitchen. It is lit by harsh, fluorescent lighting, it smells of

day-old coffee, and it is scattered with used paper plates and Oreo cookie crumbs. I glare out the

window at the apartment buildings beyond the train tracks. I miss the trees. I see the lonely

Fordham Ram magnet on the miniature refrigerator out of the corner of my eye. I miss Positano.

I hear planes roar overhead, I am startled by sirens on the street below, and I smell weed across

the hall. I miss the sound of Andrea Bocelli’s voice. I look down at my sad attempt at a

recreation of Dad’s special sauce and wipe a tear from my cheek. I check my calendar for the

fifth time today, wishing time would move a little faster. I sigh, but I dig in.