My Friend Henry by Mario DeMatteo

I have a 7 year old next door neighbor named Henry.

Every Saturday morning, Henry knocks on my door

to show me something new and amazing he discovered in his backyard.

He brought me an empty butterfly chrysalis.

A piece of petrified wood the spirals he estimates to be a million, fafillion years old.

A body of a dragonfly he carefully placed in a wooden box,

the wings still perfectly intact.

I show Henry the perfectly spiraling bean plant climbing in search of the sun.

We smell the lavender bush.

I tell him it's made of magic.

I show him the spiral of a snail shell, that looks just like the spiral of the bean plant,

that looks just like the spiral of the petrified wood, that looks just like the spiral of

his fingerprints.

You see, Henry’s parents are atheists 

and have respectfully asked me

to please not introduce to Henry the notion of God or intelligent design.  

I like my neighbors

and Henry is my friend.

So I respect their request.

Kind of.

I'd never indoctrinate Henry,

only inspire him to marvel at the magic of nature

and the intricate detail in small living things,

the creepy crawlers and the winged beast of the sky

beyond his IPad and Xbox 360. 

So I show Henry a beehive formed in the corner of my yard 

hanging in the shade of the orange tree.

We sneak just close enough to see the intricate hexagonal patterns.

“How did you make such a cool house for the bees,” he asks.

I look into Henry’s eyes and see the galaxies forming,

 the earth perfectly tilted at the precise angle to stay in orbit around the sun, 

the tides dancing with the moon so they will know exactly how to caress the sea shore.  

I tell Henry that the bees have a brain the size of a sesame seed, 

yet their hive is made of thousands of perfect hexagons

which store more pollen than any other possible geometric pattern they might have chosen. 

Scientists are bewildered by their mathematical genius.

Bees can learn and remember complex flight calculations,

flapping their aerodynamic wings 200 times per second.

The US Air Force has been studying the bee for years to help them invent new to spy on us,

but you're too young for that Henry.

What I mean is, 

bees are amazing!!!

“But how did you build such a cool house for them.”

Henry I didn't build the beehive.

they built their own beehive.  

A seed of curiosity sprouts an oak tree in the center of Henry's imagination.

A bee lands on Henry's shirt.

Instead of squealing over in fear, 

Henry’s smile floods over 2000 thousand years of arguments between science and religion.

All that matters now is the small furry winged creature

crawling up the shirt sleeve of a small boy 

entering a world that would love to disappear his imagination,

disappear our instinctual romance with the nature,

disappear any notion of something way bigger than ourselves. 

Henry looks up at me and ponders the only question I could ever hope for,

“But who taught the bees how to build their amazing house?”

Toy Room

My therapist told me living in the past is one of the leading causes of depression.

I tell her about a room in my house dedicated to old toys and trinkets from my childhood. My mom kept all my ish. Ninja turtles, He-man, Thundercats, she even kept a dusty old hourglass I still flip over from time to time when I'm by myself. I'm by myself a lot, especially when I'm surrounded by an ocean of people.

It's been 14 years since the bottom of that swimming pool took the life I knew. Left me a rolling thing. I call that life BC, before cripple. It's a joke, that nobody laughs at, more of a shadow my depression hides behind. I live in the past a lot. Living in the past is a time machine guillotine, your is mind severed from all we should be thankful for now.

The toy room holds the memories of a stubborn boy, a momma’s boy.

“Slow down,” she'd say. “You can have all the toys in the world,” she'd say. “But only one body.” I never listened to a word my momma said.

I break the hourglass and sand fills the room.

I'm five years old again, chasing my girlfriend to the monkey bars. Of course I had a girlfriend at five. And out of nowhere, Scott Thompson on the tire swing takes me out. My two bottom teeth go straight through my lip. Mom said, “Beware the things you chase might blind you.”

I'm ten, diving into my backyard swimming pool. I hit my head on the bottom. Momma gave me a spoon to my backside that day. She said, “Never dive head first into anything.”

I'm fourteen, the emergency room a familiar temple. I'm doing wheelies in a hospital wheelchair. Mom pinches me and twists, she says, “Never make a fool of things that give people life.”

I tell her, “If I'm ever in a wheelchair for reals, I'll roll myself off a cliff.”

I'm not gonna lie, the cliff is always beckoning. That's the thing about depression, the cliff seems so much easier, or the trigger, or oncoming traffic, or the medicine cabinet. A sort of beautiful sabotage. The backdrop to every moment we live dragging around the dead carcass of a past we wished we still lived in.

I told you, I never listened to a word my momma said. But I'm too much of a Momma's boy for that cliff. She raised me better. She's still raising me.

Nowadays mom she says, “Never let those wheels define you son. Never let those wheels rob you of your smile son. Gods got big plans for you yet son.

And I'm in my toy room again, thirty five year old. I can't erase the past, but I can turn that cliff into a launchpad. Leave that jenky ass hourglass and the faded shimmer of yesterday behind. And when my mom tells me, “Gods got big plan for you yet son.”

Yo Mom

I'm finally listening.

Soup by Mario DeMatteo

it’s kinda chilly out there tonight / the air is struggling to capture the smell of burning logs and home cooking that dangle above the treetops / inside we’re making onion soup like French chef’s on Bourbon street / 6 onions/ 2 cloves of garlic / salt n pepper / parmesan cheese / don’t forget the beef stalk and fresh bread / / you chop / I stir / I chop / we mix / we pass and switch / I bump your butt with my...wheels / the fragrance of Nana’s recipe flees from the pot finding us in the middle of the world staring at each other / your hair looks perfect tonight / it drips down your back like winter in Paris / put the soup on simmer and tiptoe over to me / / Billy Holiday is singing a concerto just for us / I can’t help but wanna dance to the scratchy fuzz of the record player / I think it makes the soup smell better and the cold is only cold if your alone / Billy’s words are forever, “It’s just the thought of you,” she says.  “The very thought of you my love.”

here, hold my hand and come closer /  the soup no longer needs our attention / and plus, the fireplace is feeling lonely and left out / I think the smoke is telling the chimney secrets about you and I / the kindling crackles and out of the flames float words to a thousand stories we’ve yet to live / there used to be a TV in this room, but it got swept outside last spring / no need for TV when we tell stories to each other all night / keep talking  / tell me again about Larry, the little spider that lived behind the light / you used to feed him flies in winter time / on nights just like this / he relied on you like the flowers rely on God / no it’s not a weird story / tell me about your pet turtle or your mom’s enormous butt or that secret spot up on the roof you used to escape to when you wanted to be alone / come closer under the blankets / I can’t see you / kiss me

suppose that we stay here all night until the sun seeks refuge in the sky / I think the soup is ready / you say / keep my spot beneath the blanket /  I say / can you flip the record too / you say / think of another story / I say / hurry hurry / you say

eating Nana’s soup under the blankets and telling stories to each other is what will keep us together among other things / like cold nights when the moon presses against the window to spy on us and wishes she could cuddle with the stars / lying next to you // is salvation

I’m convinced / it smells like onion soup in heaven / and Billy Holiday sings for us all night