It’s dark when I finally get back to the shop.
I can see my father through the front window.
He’s leaning against the worktable,
smiling with my grandfather;
the steam from their cups
rises between them.
They look happy.
It’s been harder
since my mom’s gone away.
My grandfather wants
us to spend more time at synagogue,
but my father won’t.
I almost don’t want to interrupt them.
I wonder if he had to wait long?
What if he’s mad?
Well, says my grandfather,
looks who’s returned.
My father stiffens for a moment,
but when I walk to the table,
my grandfather puts his arms around me,
his heavy hands around my shoulders.
If you keep doing all these deliveries,
you better start taking your bike.
I feel his body relax, and mine does, too.
I get my backpack,
see the dark greenish box
on the low shelf in the back room,
and notice something strange.
There is a smell:
wet dirt,
pond water,
the ground
after a hard rain.
I want to look inside the heavy lid.
My grandfather
walks me toward the door
where my father is already standing.
Etan, he coughs through his words,
Jordan’s mother came by today
to pick up a necklace
I fixed for her.
She said you should call him,
invite him to Shabbos? All right?
I see my father’s eyes
go from me to my grandfather
and back again.
Then he puts his hands
on my shoulder.
See you tomorrow, Pop.