You looked just like my dad, I remember,
and there was always a basket of Dum-Dum’s
in your house or a handful in your pocket,
as reward for being your granddaughters.
You had a sweet tooth, they told me.

I remember you in pieces as clear and sharp
as that photograph gleaming under the lamp: me and my sister,
and you, effortlessly cradling one in each brown arm,
your soft white hair draped over your scalp,
and the mountains and valleys of your forehead
deepened in the way you raised your eyebrows to smile.

I remember your vernacular: lobsters were “hobby-lobbies”
and like a regular paisan you told everyone who frustrated you,
“fa Nabola!” I was a fraff and my sister was a mackerel,
and you (mis)pronounced ricotta and proscuitto
like the relatives you’d never met back in Teano.

I remember one Halloween my dad brought me and my sisters
to visit you and Nana Claire. My bag was overflowing
with lollipops by the time we left.
You dressed up like a scarecrow and stood still
so we would think you were real.

You forgot to close the bathroom door one day,
but I guess old people forget things like that.
My dad once said you were “losing it” but not
what “it” was. I would have found it for you.

I remember you always wore polo shirts and khakis,
and you smelled smoggy, like your cigars.
I probably should have told you those were bad for you.

Then I remember the day my dad
picked me up from school in ‘91.
“Grandpa’s gone.” Just gone.
As if you’d left on vacation.
But the words fell to the ground like lead,
in dead thumps.

I remember we didn’t cry the walk home.
I held the straps of my backpack
and watched the ground move beneath me.
And I remember thinking:

No more lollipops.