Even with all these worries
swirling in my head,
I coast down into the town.
Around Main Street,
people are already everywhere.
I see my grandfather
through the shop window,
already back from synagogue,
a pile of books on his workbench,
but he’s not alone. My father is there
in his Will Clark jersey and Giants hat,
his hands folded,
shoulders hunched,
like he always tells
me NOT to do.
I wait outside.
They are arguing.
My father moves
around the workbench,
his voice loud, muffled
through the window.
My grandfather
stands at his full height.
Most of the time he’s
soft, bent over.
I forget
just how big
he actually is.