Yaya is what we called

our grandmothers.

Mine.

My daughter’s.

Oh, how Yaya doted

on my girl.

How she loved

her granddaughter,

and later her son-in-law

because he was a part of her.

With her heavy accent,

she’d say,

“Mine son-in-lof”

and Shane

was always

Shine.

She couldn’t make

her tongue

do what it wouldn’t do.

Dara created a list

of Yaya words and spellings

that had us giggling,

set her up

with Internet and a laptop

so they could message

between Montreal

and Vancouver

in real time,

and so Yaya

could play solitaire

in her eighties.

Innumerable ways

she had

of loving Yaya.

 

Even now.

 

Yaya’s granddaughter

is love

in action.

 

(Post-burial July 16, 2018)


 

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