My grandfather got up early to section grapefruit. I know because I got up quietly to watch. He was tall. His hairless shins stuck out below his bathrobe, down to leather slippers. The house was quiet, sun just up, ticking of the grandfather clock tall in the corner. The grapefruit were always sectioned just so, nestled in clear nubbled bowls used for nothing else, with half a maraschino centered bleeding slowly into soft pale triangles of fruit. It was special grapefruit, Indian River, not to be had back home. Doves cooed outside and the last night-breeze Rustled the palms against the eaves. He turned to see me, pale light flashing off his glasses and smiled. I remember as I work my knife along the membrane separating sections. It's dawn. The doves and palms are far away. I don't use cherries anymore. The clock is digital and no one is watching. Ted McMahon