Each morning, Grandpa and I would race the sun,
Hoping to climb the harbor hill just as she did.
With his trembling hand and shaky legs
He would point at the approaching ships.
He named their brands and explained how each ran.
Grandpa, like me, never forgot his captain hat and jacket,
The clothes that often told more stories than him.
His cane was the only thing crippling the keen memory.
Yelling “land ho!” to the fellow captains,
And waving them home to our small town on the cape.
As the sun smiled in our eyes, we saluted the men.
Even the pup gave respect to the hard workers.
Grandpa knew what the returning men had gone through.
He himself worked for years on the shrimp boats-
Cold weather, threatening conditions, and small pay.
At last the boats would dock, some with better luck than others.
The sight of the sore men was the signal,
To return to our little shack and sleeping Grandma.
We turned our backs on the bustling shore of men,
And Grandpa patted his wet eyes with a handkerchief.
I know they were tears, but not of sadness or regret.
Instead, tears of appreciation and remembrance,
