In twenty-seventeen we drove
on winding roads
from Chiavary into the hills
just inland from the Cinque Terre
to the village of Zerli
where my wife's nana lived
until her parents sent her off to San Francisco
to join an older sister
at age twelve
and by some miracle we found the house
abandoned many years
and met the neighbors
who lived across the road

My Italian just enough
for simple conversation
I spoke a while with an old-timer living down
below the neighbor's house
he offered us
a sample of his home made grappa
and went on
a bit about his work in the ship yards
during the war
I had the sense the wartime years
he'd spent in Genoa and further south
were the great moment of his life
as we were leaving
he pointed to a spot off in the trees
lining the ravine
that's where my brother died
he told me
when the Americans flew over
and dropped their bombs