Read by Aran Donovan
My Grandpa Evo had a special fork whose tines bent out wide to accommodate as much scungili pasta as he could fit into his wide Italian mouth. I can still see him shoveling it in, slurping and licking his lips, slugging Fortissimo and laughing, smiling at all of us, our family, before him at tables spread out across the yard. Sunday dinner, my mouth open wide in compagnia di comari, panting with laughter, I see him in their eyes. Who can be alone, chi sarebbe solo, among so many who are dead?