Grandfather was a kind man.
A quiet man.
A faithful man.
But I had never seen a romantic side.
Until.
The day he said, simply:
“She wore a yellow coat.”
He, a shy young man,
glancing out the window,
eyes drawn
to the girl walking with her friend.
He wondered.
Watching. Nervous.
Sent little sister as go-between.
And.
Once they met.
Sixty-seven years.
Of adventure.
Of life.
Of love.
My grandmother’s confession:
“I still get butterflies
when he walks in the room.”
