I remember my grandfather’s cigarettes. I remember the green velour seats in the Chevy he and my grandmother had. The driveway basketball hoop whose backboard eventually rotted. The stacks and stacks of boxes in the garage and in the basement. The carpeted step at the base of the basement wet bar. The antique refrigerator filled to the brim with sodas stacked in their aluminum homes. The candy jars throughout the house. The yellow refrigerator door in the kitchen. The giant Tupperware bowl of egg salad. The sheet cakes with the signature frosting. The rock garden out front. The walk-worn artificial grass that covered the front porch. The woven nylon folding chairs. The handheld poker video games. My grandfathers sobriety. The rumors about him drinking when he went to Hawaii.

He was my age once. I am his age now.