The Revenant of Jim Croce
After the Rime of Nina Simone by Tiana Clark
Jenna Savino
PUblic Domain - Christophe Huet I didn’t recognize him at first,
but I felt calmness in his
grey eyes.
His eyes slow and tender.
Black and white photos surround
him. Nothing is colorized.
Jim, the last time
I saw you was
on my grandfather’s
record player. The
record player that
sat in my
grandmother’s Catholic
kitchen.
Still left on the Catholic
record player, dusty, from
1980 when
Grandpa passed away.
Jim, I took your record off.
I unhooked the needle from
the platter. I blew off the dust.
I played your record.
Mouth slightly open he says to me,
I need to tell you something.
Listen:
For every highway, there is a journey.
But Jim, what is the
lesson I have to learn? I have been
listening to your music since
I was little because it would
remind my dad about his dad.
Breathe, he says.
I only have Five Short Minutes.
Your song Jim, that song Jim.
It sends me to prison with you.
I would rather play some other songs
on I Got a Name. Something like Thursday.
Thursday reminds me of my
Grandpa.
He grabs me by the shoulder.
I looked at him in his hazy grey eyes. He whispered
My songs tell stories. It doesn’t matter what I
write because every song I wrote had meaning.
I came to realize that I could not wait any longer
to bear around and wait for someone who can
write like you.
I looked around. Looking for someone
who could write and paint
like my grandfather whom I had never
met. I realized I see him in Jim.
I see his big nose.
I see his blue eyes that resemble my dad’s.
I see him.
I see my grandfather in all my dad’s stories.
His rambunctiousness. His care. His storytelling.
I saw the rose petal that appeared in my grandmother and my father’s hands, the eldest of four, at Grandpa’s funeral in 1980. Squeezing their hands together so tight. You put it there, Grandpa. I saw it. I saw it, Jim. I see you. I see my Grandfather.
My Grandfather. He was
a 40 year old Italian man
whose parents immigrated from Naples
and owned a Pizza shop.
Grandpa owned
a Pontiac dealership in Brooklyn.
He had a big nose and gifted my dad
a Pontiac Grand Prix for when he could drive.
Leaving his legacy through
chalk marks on the tires so
my grandfather could see when my dad
snuck out of his house to drink with his buddies
in East Northport. You and I share the same nose.
Grandpa passed away when my dad was 18.
Leaving my dad to take care of
his brothers and sister. Not allowing himself to
grieve.
Jim, you have a similar nose to the one I share with
My grandfather.
My father
and I.