I could hear my mother crying softly. She was talking to no one about how she missed my grandfather so much. I, too, was taking his absence pretty hard. Every morning he would sing to me. I could still hear his gravely New York Italian accent wafting through my ears. I missed him so much. I ran up my mother, and I hugged her tightly to my chest.

“It’s okay, mama, we will see him again.” A smile spread across my face. I knew Sundays were always the hardest. My grandfather always insisted on having a Sunday roast dinner as a family.

I was so happy to see my grandfather sitting across from me at the dinner table. He died the previous Spring. But there he was sitting across from me. He was wearing the clothes that we buried him in.

I still remember his favorite green sweater, and the tan slacks he wore to church every Sunday. He smiled at me, revealing black protruding gums. His smile still has that charm that comes with every handsome man, and his remaining brown eyes still had that twinkle that I remembered.

“Who wants gravy?” my mother asked, a forced Florence Henderson smile on her face.

No one said anything. We were all too busy gazing at our dinner guest. A gust of cold wind came in through the poorly insulated window. A horrible rotting smell filled my nose. My mother took a match from her pocket and lit the pine and cinnamon-scented candle, which sat on a red and green doily in the middle of the table.

“Grandfather, what brings you here?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, but I knew I had to break the awkward silence.

Grandfather said nothing. At that moment, I missed his authoritative presence. I still remember his illustrious singing voice and the way he spoke Italian so fluently, even though I could barely string a sentence together. I missed his words now more than ever.

A warm salty tear began to trickle down my cheek. He shook his head no. He smiled at me, and his gums were protruding and covered in black dried blood.

I laid my head on the table and began to cry. I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and the seat across from me was empty. I ran to the window and watched as my grandfather began to heave himself down the stairs, leaving drag marks and traces of dry blood.