He used to love early mornings. A coffee cup sitting on the patio table. Some whiskey poured in for good measure. 

Tall grass waved in the breeze. Sand leading out to the lake was still cool on calloused feet as light broke darkness. A kid’s castle destroyed by morning’s tide.

I used to watch from my bedroom window. Sometimes, I could hear him talking. Mumbling about how it used to be. Days of war. A flag flown overhead.

In afternoons, hot dogs were grilled. White smoke going up to the heavens. A new pope had been elected, the old man said. Pope Grandpa the 1st, he proclaimed. Then he he’d bless us with his steady hands. We all laughed. Highball glasses replaced coffee cups.

A bonfire on the beach was our nightly ritual. Grandmother and Grandfather sitting on folding chairs sinking into the sand. Singing old songs.  The ones Sinatra sang. Burnt wood left behind.

Down the hall at midnight, I’d hear him crying, talking out loud. Saying, one day, this will all be over. One day.