Fingers drumming on the table,
that’s what I remember best about Grandpa.
That and his garden.
And walking with him on Dix Avenue.

His garden was bigger than our backyard,
bigger than our house,
bigger than our entire neighborhood.
At least that’s how I remember it.

His fingers drummed, drummed, drummed
while he waited for his cheese
sandwich and coffee.
His coffee was more than half milk.
He was already drinking lattes in the 60s.
We just didn’t know it.

I miss him.

He talked sometimes about the Old Country,
sometimes.
He had World War I and the Depression
inside his head.
His trip from Italy, the Nazis,
his mother and father,
his memories of my dad as a boy.
All inside his head.

The cheese sandwich usually had tomatoes
fresh, sliced tomatoes.
From his garden.

"What was it like being my dad’s dad?"
I asked quietly.
Too quietly.

He drummed his fingers on the table.
Played solitaire.
Stirred his coffee.