In the sauna that is my backyard’s summer air,
I consider the ice clinking in my glass
and how my grandparents first met ice skating 
at a city park bordered by brick apartment buildings
where in winter an oval of cloudy ice
paralleled a sky heavy with snow,
how they skated together with linked arms and mittened hands, 
him crossing one skate in front of the other,
his smile lifting his dark eyebrows as they chatted,
that same easy grin appearing 
whenever my grandma sang him to the dinner table–
his nickname
given by people in her mostly Lithuanian building 
because he was Lebanese.