My Grandfather sits at the table
collecting the pistachios
I can’t open myself
in his hands.
He digs a nail into the hairline cracks
pries the shells apart
hands me the fresh green meat
like a prize.
In the evening after dinner
he takes out a pocketknife
carves the peach skin fuzz
away from the soft fruit
hands me a perfect half-moon slice
dripping with orange nectar
and free of bruise.
Later I call him to the back patio
where the crickets chirp through
the screens and the fireflies
light the night
to pop the tab open
on my Vernor’s Ginger Ale.
He wraps his callus-spotted palm
around the cold can
takes a sip before handing
it back to me.