Frozen in time like the octopus at the back of the freezer, I. On the corner of Prospect Park West and Avenue he flew above my unknowing carriage. A wayward soul grew wings above the pizzeria. Concrete rushing up to meet his fading heart. Across the street from the delicatessen with the ice cold chocolate pudding and halved maraschino cherry. (Do you have any idea how much work goes into making a goddamn maraschino cherry? Hours upon hours of preparation, process and protocol all for something most people toss out of their drinks. What a wonderful analogy. Feel free to use that one for any and all arduous exercises in futility.) Near (where Poppa worked) the fish store. Halfway down the block you would smell the coffee beans and burlap sacks. Poppa passed the demitasse through the fence to Cosmo. Trees wrapped in foil for the winter. Mason jars filled with nuclear war tomato sauce stocked and stashed on either side of the damp staircase. Near where sunrise peach cherries rained stains on the shed's hat. Where my mom grew up. (Near where they filmed Dog Day Afternoon. I remember how enormous the stairs and stoop looked.) Rest of the family lived around the block. That's just how it used to be somehow. Everyone stuck together. So long as there was a patriarch to pay tribute and pass pasta to. Otherwise, its every man for himself.