He would sit me on his knee, giving me that look that only grandfather’s can; doling out some worldly advice. A botched surgery before my birth made his voice always sound like a radiator clacking, and his skin bore witness to all the things he’d built over the years, to put us in this spot, this day.
“Two or three boyfriends are alright,” he’d say, “but one is dangerous.”
And he would smile – throw his head back – and laugh, his accent so thick you’d think he’d gotten off the boat yesterday. Another pearl of wisdom from our link to Magyarorszag, the Old Country, and our pasts.
He was so proud of himself that I didn’t have the heart to say, “But Api – boys have cooties!”