Oh those days of Jesus following me with his eyes and bloody thorn crown, with the fan in the window blowing sticky Brooklyn air onto the bleach scented sheets.

I was 10, spending a week with Grandma Mary and Grandpa Pasquale, squeaky clean and suburb reared, about to be educated into the glories of love.

Could I know then how a man impossibly old and a woman plump and lined could have a passionate love affair? No, never...

Grandpa called me monkey, and let me climb out the fire escape to get his bottle of ruby painted wine. I was exalted by the black wraut iron filigree and the height from the 10 story apt. building, clothes strung across the brick alley. As I grabbed the heavy green jug, I looked both ways to make sure the Jesus picture and my grandma didn't see me, and spit over the side, just to see how far it would go.

Grandma's hands were tiny, with long fingers and oval nails. She took two glasses from the enamal cupboard and sliced peaches into them. Grandpa poured wine over the peaches and daubed a bit on my tongue.