There’s some evidence that Joe is holding his daughter, Camille.

Joe’s birthday is today. Joe was my safe place in my home, and I miss him still. He died amid fireworks on the Fourth of July. How fitting. I wrote this piece at the time and I take it out now and then.

You remember Joe

“the honorable JM,” Helen called him playfully.

He was the quiet one, who loved having people around him,

the short one, who did tall things.

“I want to thank you for everything,” he would say, for the smallest gift.

Well, he died on the Fourth of July.

On Independence Day, he left his daughters without cribbage,

his blue Maverick without a determined, grinning, Boston driver,

and his friends without countless favors.

We’ve had the last of his grin and his stuffed peppers,

the last of his salads, with chunks of salami arranged symmetrically.

We are without the Son of Italy,

beating the drum on the Revere Beach bandstand,

or resting his eyes in front of the old Philco,

(the shadow knows)

or laughing at Abbott and Costello (who’s on first).

He’s not available at the Holiday Inn;

there’s no answer on Hutchinson Street.

We could try to get him back.

Maybe if we play an old Vaughn Monroe 78,

or settle the baseball strike,

or send Whimsey with a note.

He knows we’d do anything for him.

Where could he get a better deal?

He’d only leave us for a better deal.

This Independence Day, he abandoned his boy’s size feet

and funny-looking half-thumb, and pockets full enough

to wake every airport metal detector.

On the Fourth of July, during cook-outs and fireworks,

family gatherings and parades,

Joe moved on to a better deal.

“Here’s your Hubby,” he probably said.

Joe, we want to thank you for everything.