THE FIG TABLE
by Kirsten Keppel
You were the diplomat with the franc-parler,
the student of life with such savoir-faire,
yet I thought of you as Signor Fico,
when, Sunday after Sunday, in summer,
I would carry your cappuccino to our table
after mass, at coffee hour, where you always
bellowed, “Bella! Tell me, bella! Do you think
he qualifies for my figs? Do you think she qualifies
for my figs?” about every person we people-watched.
You’d clutch that bag of treasure close, even with its
juice stains threatening to soil your suit jacket,
you cradled them as if they were babies,
not only for how they kept you close to your roots,
but because they instructed you to remind us all
of what you called, “The innate courtesy of our people.”
You insisted I say bellafemmina to a lady,
and bonomo to a gentleman. In Abruzzo,
it would have been rude to say just sir or lady.
Buongiorno, bonomo! “Does he qualify, bella?
Tell me! What do you think?
Does she qualify for my figs?”
You never specified criteria. I suspect they had
something in common with the fig tree, and
the care you held in your heart for Italy, that you
poured in the ground to plant figs. Resilient even
in a less than hospitable climate, like you, they knew
how to grow enough to seep through the paper sack,
their sweet, juicy fragrance scenting the coffee hour.
At your funeral, when we were invited to share,
beyond stories of your distinguished career,
global postings, reverse migration from America
to Italy and back, your impeccable French,
and even your translation of Manzoni’s I Promessi Sposi
(because, you said, no other version had yet sufficed)
I spoke instead of your figs. I shared how you loved
bestowing the fruit on each bellafemmina and bonomo
you thought qualified, and I thought qualified.
I was honored you took me at my word.
I never told you that because of you,
I never forget that I, too, have Italy in my blood,
and with you, I care for it, like you cared for that fig tree.
You played me the notes of my roots,
Signor Fico––sometimes they are a melancholy mess,
sometimes a dance of celebration, both feile and festa,
this Irish and Italian music you insisted was important to hear.
Because of you, sláinte and salute swirl within me,
hidden inside like fig tree flowers, these notes
central to the stories I create. I still want to read them
to you on Sundays, at The Fig Table,
hoping it’s still a place I’ll find your spirit,
timeless like the fig, insisting my words always blossom.
PUBLISHED WITH PERMISSION FROM OVUNQUE SIAMO