The scent of leather, shoe wax
and the cobbler’s aftershave,
pears, broken
crates of ricotta cheese, rinds of parmesan stacked
haphazard on barrels of yellow beans,
fagioli, hard as beads,
crushed beet
leaves, broccoli florets, snap
peas. The scent of basil stops
at the back of the storage room, where grandfather
sits, propped up in suspenders and shirtsleeves, head
tipped forward, shoulders hunched, his work
consumed by their broadness. A ray of light
slices the top of his head, green apple in one still hand,
coring knife in the other, the peel
falling into the milk crate. By his blackened shoe
a grey mouse rubs its furry back
into the stitches, nibbles a hunk of cheese.

– Paula Brancato

Note: “Her Grandfather” is a revised version of a poem originally published by Mudfish in 2008.

Author’s Note: “Her Grandfather” came about because I have been writing about my family in the old country. And though both grandfathers and great grandfathers passed away well before I could have known them, I can imagine how it was, how these men lived, what they may have surrounded themselves with and what a child might grow to know about them.