I spent summers at Grandma’s house
when I was a young girl.
Each year she’d comment on my height
as I gave her a twirl.

She lived on a narrow harbour,
where fishing boats once roamed,
on both sides of the water were
these wee waterfront homes.

Grandma’s wooden house had endless
rooms, cupboards, crawl spaces.
I’d find the most surprising things
in surprising places.

A one-million piece puzzle was
glued to an attic wall;
Grandma said it took six whole years
and she cherished them all.

I discovered a bronze medal
in a bathroom drawer;
she said she was an Olympian
after the Second War.

There was a hand in a glass jar,
atop a blue canoe;
to whom the hand belonged,
Grandma had not a clue.

With every quirky thing I found,
my sleuthing skills grew keen,
yet baffled by what I observed,
the year I turned thirteen.

Only then had I noticed that,
each day at three o’clock,
Grandma looked across the harbour
while standing on her dock.

Directly across stood a man
who looked to be her age,
like branches in a gentle wind,
they did a long slow wave.

Yes, each and every single day,
the action would repeat,
Grandma and a mysterious man
performed their waving feat.

My understanding of Grandma
had all at once been changed,
and yet she just kept on as if
nothing at all were strange.

In the mornings we picked berries
and went digging for clams,
then cooked and baked such wondrous treats
while canning fresh made jams.

One day as Grandma and I baked
her famous apple pie,
I built up just enough strength to
unhinge my mouth and pry.

As she pinched in more cinnamon,
and I dashed in nutmeg,
I asked about the waving man,
soon asking turned to begs.

My efforts were not for nothing,
she talked between pie bites,
and just like that yummy dessert,
her tale was sweet and spiced.

They liked each other in grade school
but went their separate ways,
though she loved Grandpa, she has thought
about him for all her days.

The waving had gone on for years,
from their respective sides,
but they’d not so much as spoken
cross the narrow divide.

Grandma was somber, so I thought
maybe she’d feel better,
if she wrote her feelings for him
in a heartfelt letter.

I reminded her to write him
throughout the entire week,
from the time she woke each morning
till when she went to sleep.

To hush me up she wrote to him,
wondering if… whether…
maybe… perhaps… he thought it was
time to get together.

A reply came the next day and
I danced round as I read.
He'd invited her for dinner
a quick two days from then.

Straight away she doubted going,
and put up a strong fight,
a whirlwind of excuses flew
from the left and the right:

The harbour ferry was pricey,
the bridge too long a walk,
even if she reached him she’d be
too nervous to talk.

“I will of course come too,” I said,
“If you’re willing to go,
we'll take that blue canoe of yours,
I’d be happy to row.”

[musical break?]

As she climbed in the canoe she
was damp with nervous sweat.
Her legs and feet trembled beneath
a lovely tea length dress.

Meager minutes was all it took
to paddle us across,
a small harbour measured in years
together that they lost.

The man, named Tyrell, met us down
along his bit of shore.
He too was sweaty and shaky,
nerves peeling at his core.

Walking up to his quaint old house,
there was not one word said.
All I heard were the cricket chirps
and a resounding dread.

The vegetable pot pie he made
Grandma said was quite nice.
Tyrell said thanks and then they both
looked back at their slice.

Otherwise the only noise was
scratching knives, spoons and forks.
Emotions bottled for decades
needed to be uncorked.

So I turned to all his records,
of which he had a ton,
and searched for the album cover
that looked to be most fun.

I danced wildly to the music,
cross the creaking floorboards.
Tyrell laughed as to Grandma's hand
he moved slowly towards.

He mumbled something sounding like,
will you please dance with me?
Grandma, with a sweet giddy nod,
so happily agreed.

They quickly found their rhythm with
the waltz and jitterbug,
then with slower songs where they
two stepped in a tight hug.

I finished off the pot pie while
the newfound couple danced.
It was the first moment of what
would be lifelong romance.

Tyrell insisted we visit
as often as we could.
Turned out he too had surprises
in his wee house of wood.

By his bed was, from his school days,
a Valentine’s Day card
that my grandma gave to him and
he never did discard.

Within his basement chests there was
a letter creased and bent,
a years-old love declaration,
that he had never sent.

And a ring with a sapphire,
matching the harbour’s blue;
for whose hand it belonged
Tyrell gave not a clue.

We had the greatest adventures,
just us three musketeers,
rowing round together defined
my bestest teenage year.

Sometimes they sat along the dock,
with so much to be said,
catching up on years apart and
their new bright life ahead.

From what I was able to hear,
they both had some regrets,
but felt lucky that their last years
would be the best years yet.

When Grandma moved in with Tyrell,
she gave her house to me,
and for years I would wave at them
each afternoon at three.

Sometimes I’d catch them on their dock
dancing during sunset,
the red, orange and purple sky
outlined their silhouettes.

When they were too sickly to wave
I daily canoed by,
and helped them to the table for
my vegetable pot pie.

I think about when me and my son
waved during a wet snow,
shortly after three that day was
when Grandma chose to go.

There was no one left to wave at,
I still waved anyway,
and so too would my grandchildren,
a tradition to this day.