My grandpa’s belly hangs low over the tops of his jeans. When he laughs, he thunders and his gut ripples like water in his tight t-shirts. He keeps his sleeves rolled up and a pack of Marlboro Reds rest in the fold. As a child, my favorite days were the days that he stops by our house for afternoon coffee with my mom. As my school bus rounded the corner, I’d press my face against the window hoping to see his red Cadillac parked on the street. I’d hope he was smoking on the porch. I’d pretend to agree with my mom and grandma that it’s a filthy habit, but the truth is that I love sitting across the table from him, floating and laughing together in his cloud of smoke.