There were three of them looking unfinished because Gramma did not have enough eggs for the Meringue.

It was the end of our short summer stay with Dad's parents in their cottage near Lake Ontario. World war two was still a year or two away.

On the last day of our stay Gramma gave us the Meringue-less lemon pies. Lois, Eunice and I did not care. And with some disbelief we were told we could each eat a whole pie.

Oh it was so good with each delicious bite carefully savored and tasting so good and so forever even unto this day. Grampa and Gramma watched us enjoy their gift of love and treat as their attentive eyes smiled and glistened wet with tears.

We will be returning that same day to the broken home where we exist. There will never be a lemon pie there ever.

Marked on a nearby door jam by Grampa are the marks of our growing older taller year by year visit by visit. Lois Eunice and me in descending order.

Sometimes when no one seemed to be watching I would catch Grammpa fingering the marks he had carved into the wood.

What I wonder was he thinking.

180