Many of the photographs were taken on old tin
plates that produced brownish prints. Most
are fading now. Too many of their young faces

are all but gone. It saddens me that in some
of the photographs there are just the clothes
standing there smiling back at us. It never

occurred to me that my grandmother once had
a tiny waist or that she was just a tad taller than
the boy she married. Andrew was the first born

of over a dozen. He had snapshots of aunts
and uncles so young not even their offspring can
name them. I sit among the images wondering

what was going on moments before they were
taken. In one, everybody is sporting a kind
of frown except a very young cousin Gordon.

He is yawning with a boredom that suggests
he has heard whatever has taken the joy out
of the moment so many times, it’s lost its punch. 

My grandmother was the empress of farewells.
She was born in England and had seen the Queen
waving to soldiers being shipped out to sea. Her
mother was a concert violinist with groupies
to whom, I was told, she waved a silk scarf as

she passed them by to get into her carriage
and back to her hotel. Somewhere along the line,
Grandmother learned to make a to-do each time
she said goodbye. Everyone had to be hugged
and walked to the door. When the last of them

was out, she would stand on the porch and watch
as her visitors disappeared down the moss covered
steps that led to the street below. If they turned
for one last glimpse, they would catch her waving
a white handkerchief from an extended arm almost

as if she were shooing away flies from a cooling pie
or mosquitos from a napping child. The last time
I saw her I was on leave from the Air Force. She
served home-canned raspberries, tea and buttered
crumpets. She played a few of her favorite Beatrice

Kaye recordings and talked about Mrs. Hermison’s
recuperation from a broken hip. When I left, she
hugged me soundly. I don’t know how, but as I
turned to blow her one final kiss, I knew it would
be the last time I’d see her waving, hanky in hand.