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I.

4 o’clock tolled with a sing-song beckoning

in my grandfather’s tenor: “cocktail hour”

and I’d roll my eyes at Lauren, usually halfway

through gin-rummy, but we’d go

indulge grandfather and his crushed ice

already chinked in sweaty glasses. I knew

Manhattans from gimlets from martinis

by the garnish, plotted carefully whom to tail

in hope of those sweet spiked cherries.

Tall Shirley Temples for us, extra grenadine if

we’d been extra-good. Grandma Gene drank

martinis and hoarded olives on her swizzler,

crowded at least four up to the handle,

then sucked them voraciously. I never understood.

They made my mouth curl back on itself.

II.

Tastes change, I suppose. I learned to eat olives at 22,

for a boy who swore by martinis, the same year my grandmother

stopped drinking because of her chemo. I don’t like them

unless they’re vodkasoaked, saltsharp, and cold.

My grandmother died in the spring, and my boy moved on

to other things. When I hold a long-stemmed, sharp-edged glass,

I think of them.

III.

4 o’clock still marks cocktail hour; grandfather

calls sedately now. With the adults, I order a vodka martini,

extra olives. Glances meet; I silently agree to halve

it with Lauren in another room. I only offer

a single olive, though. I suck the rest

one by one

in honor of my grandmother.